


The Broken Crown

by Hyperion327



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Geography, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Like so much, M/M, Major Worldbuilding, Minor Character Death, Modern Royalty, Mystery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Terrorism, There's a history lesson every chapter and you WILL take it, This is a bit of an experiment, Thriller, humor me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2020-10-24 11:34:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 19
Words: 70,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20705312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyperion327/pseuds/Hyperion327
Summary: Derek's wedding night was meant to be the first of many in a long marriage to his new husband. As the second child of a major duchess, he was the perfect fit for the first gay emperor since 1815. Instead, his wedding night ends in literal flames as his husband, the Imperial Senate, and hundreds of others are vaporized in a bombing that is the worst terror attack in the history of the empire. As old secrets are revealed and the crown falls to him, Derek is forced to deal with his new public duties, navigating a paranoid government, a terror group bent on ending his reign, and trying to produce an heir of his own blood.Along the way, he meets Stiles Stilinski, the son of a minor noble. It will be Stiles who makes all the difference, if only they can both survive long enough to make it at all.





	1. Prologue - Wedding Night

**Author's Note:**

> Long story short, this is an idea I have toyed with forever and a day. If you're curious as to what this world looks like compared to our own, as well as backstory that's mostly geopolitical in nature, head over to [my tumblr](https://jessicalangeslefttit.tumblr.com/post/186946493277/the-world-of-the-broken-crown) and take a look at it! This one is a big experiment for me, I want honest thoughts. I know this is hardly my most wild AU, or even close to the most wild on this site, but it's still a step for me.

As the car slides past the gates of Versailles, Derek looks out the back window, watching the spire of smoke and flame rise from the heart of Paris. He cannot fathom what has just happened. There is blood dripping from his nose, and smoke and debris cover his silver formalwear, but he can’t care, dear Gods, he _ can’t fucking care. _Not when Diego is dead, not when the entirety of the government is gone. Who will inherit the crown? Who will lead the nation? Moreover, what the Hell will become of him?

**-Ω-**

**Twelve Hours Earlier**

There’s a knock at the door, and Laura is excitedly bursting into the dressing room, her royal blue dress moving around her like water as she excitedly wraps her arms around Derek. 

“Oh, this is really it!” She cries. “Months and _ months _of planning and working and the press up everyone’s ass, and we’re finally here!” 

Derek gives a mirthful chuckle. “You might be more excited about this than I am.” 

“I don’t know why, for the Gods’ sake, you’re marrying the Emperor! My baby brother, the Emperor Consort, I can hardly believe it. King Derek _ does _have a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? Much better than Lord of Dundee, that’s for sure.” Laura muses. “Besides, Diego is cute, and he’s been nothing but wonderful to all of us. You’ve really hit it out of the park with this one.” 

“I know, I know, I just… I wish we’d had more time to properly date and everything. This whole thing has been so rushed. I get the urgency, there needs to be an heir to the throne, but Diego is only twenty-three, what’s the rush?” He asks. 

Laura nods sympathetically as she walks across the room to grab the heavy silver tunic he’ll be married in and helps ease him into its complex layers. 

“I hate to sound cruel,” She begins, “But these are matters of the state, not of the heart. If Diego were just Crown Prince, I imagine you’d have had plenty of time, but his mother abdicated when he was just twenty one years old. The empire never even knew he was gay until the first photos of you two hit the tabloids. I know you don’t love him yet, Derek, but you said it yourself. He’s attractive, he’s kind, and I know you two are physically compatible, if the noises from your rooms back home are any indication.” 

_ “Laura!” _He indignantly protests.

“You told me once he was someone you could see yourself loving. Give that time, and it’ll come.” She continues, ignoring him entirely. “Now, let me get you into this jacket.” 

**-Ω-**

His full regnal name is Diego Alexander Charles Anson Hale. He’s the third Emperor to bear the name, and the first in more than a thousand years. Right now, however, Diego feels like a frightened little prince at a reception in Budapest and unable to even pronounce the Duke of Hungary’s son’s name, not an emperor in his prime, and on his wedding day, no less. That’s when his father slips into the room, holding a sapphire tie in his hand. 

“Your mom left this in the car.” King Father Tomas says. “Security about threw a damned fit when I went to get it.” 

“Twenty-five years of marriage and you still haven’t gotten used to the Imperial Guard, Dad.” Diego taunts. “Commoner.” 

“Highborn brat.” The elder shoots back, absolutely no venom in his voice. He marches over to his son and begins the process of tying the tie. “My father did this for me on my wedding day, and, hopefully, someday you will do it for your son on his.” 

“Or daughter. Crown Princess Jane got married in a suit, remember?”

Tomas chuckles, and straightens the lapels on his suit, pinning the blue and white boutonniere onto his jacket. After fussing with the dark brown locks on top of his son’s head, he nods, and grabs the ornate crown from where it rests on a bust. 

Each regent of Carolingia has had their own regnal crowns made. Diego’s is a silver one studded with oval cut sapphires, with a dozen or so triangular peaks on it. It doesn’t much stand out in terms of the crowns of the forty-four regents, from the outrageous diamond crown of Connor I that cast a halo like an angel’s in the sunlight to the one of woven petrified branches worn by Jane II, but it’s his, and he’s proud of it. 

With great solemnity, the King Father places the crown on his son’s head. “Derek’s not gonna know what hit him.” He says with a watery smile. “I am so proud of you, kiddo.” 

“Thanks, Dad.”

**-Ω-**

The Notre Dame Pantheon is one of the most defining features of Paris. The great bell towers, enormous stained glass windows, and the statues of the Gods are iconic of the gothic architecture period. The last time Notre Dame was this crowded was for the royal wedding of Diego’s aunt, Princess Helena, and that was more than twenty years prior. This is the first wedding the pantheon has seen in the twenty first century.

As Derek stands in the wings towards the back of the sanctuary, he notes that the entire damn church is full. That’s literally over a thousand people, before you count press and the people in the wings above that go up for whole floors. At the end of the long gallery, he spots his intended, a flash of blue against a backdrop of white marble, and the nervousness he feels fades. 

“It’s a matter of state.” He mumbles to himself. 

His mother is there, then, linking her arm through his. “Ready, Der?” She asks, smiling gently. 

“Yeah.” He nods, taking a breath to steady himself. “Let’s do this.” 

From the time Talia gives the cue to an usher to when he finally arrives at the enormous altar must be five minutes, but it feels like nothing at all. When his mother gives him away, pressing his hands into Diego’s, he locks eyes with the man who will be his husband in a matter of seconds. The vows flow from his lips easily, even earnestly, and then their union is sealed with a kiss that makes the raucous applause of over a thousand fade into the background. 

Once the kiss ends, Diego smiles brilliantly at him, caressing him on the cheek and nodding. “Almost done. Just gotta give the Emperor Consort his crown.” He says, soft enough that only Derek is able to hear it. 

He takes that as his cue, and moves to the center of the altar, bending on one knee and looking down the aisle towards the doors of the pantheon. Diego places the circlet he’d designed on his head with great care. Rather than the traditional design, Derek had gone with a more Scottish look to his consort’s crown. Thin, flexible bands of silver were woven together in intricate patterns of Celtic knots, with a single, heavy sapphire centered in the middle. When it’s settled on his head, he rises, and finds the crowd before him has risen in response. 

“All hail His Grace, Derek Stephen Hale, Emperor Consort and Lord of Carolingia!” Diego booms. 

“All hail King Derek! All hail Emperor Diego!” The attendees cry.

And like that, Lord Derek Collins, secondborn of Duchess Talia of Alba, is gone, and King Derek Hale, Emperor Consort, is born. 

**-Ω-**

Outside, a crowd of hundreds of thousands waits. The two newlyweds walk out hand-in-hand and wave to them, smiling like fools the whole march to the procession of black vehicles that will take them to the Louvre for the wedding reception. As soon as they’re in the Mercedes, Derek and Diego both give audible sighs of relief. 

“The hard part is over.” Diego chuckles. “Soon it’ll just be us, alone on the island of Formentera.” 

Derek rolls his eyes fondly. “After six months of _ this, _that’s all I want. A little privacy.” 

“Once you’re all moved into Versailles, you’ll have plenty more privacy, don’t you worry.” The emperor says. “I know this hasn’t been easy, but you’ve done beautifully. You’re gonna be a great king, one to make the empire proud.”

“Thank you.” 

The sun is just beginning to set when their vehicle deposits them at the Louvre. The sprawling complex had once been the residence of centuries of Carolingian regents, and French kings and queens before Caroline I had deposed her father, but it was in 1142 that Raphael I, the first emperor of the Golden Dynasty, began construction on the massive palace at Versailles, which every ruler since had called home. In the time since then, the Louvre has served as first a residence for the Crown Princes, then as home of the Imperial Senate, and since 1817 and the War of the Silver Succession, as one of the most respected museums in the world. 

The one building not connected to the others in the Louvre complex is the Imperial Reception Hall. Built during the reign of Alexander III, the building is a large marble and granite hall marked by beautiful columns on its exterior. The building is more colorful than those surrounding it, marked by rich greens, pinks, and browns in its stone, and was built looking towards the Louvre in the Tuileries Garden, where once a large fountain had sat. The hall was so iconic to the Alexandrian Dynasty of the empire that it served as the inspiration for the Kennedy Center across the Panthalassic in the United States. 

The wedding reception doesn’t begin until nine o’clock, however, and Derek won’t enter the building for his formal introduction to the court as Emperor Consort until quarter after. The next hour he will spend apart from his husband, as tradition states, changing out of his wedding clothes and into another tunic for the party. By Diego’s insistence, most of the nobility is _ not _in attendance at the affair, though the Imperial Council, the ten archdukes and archduchesses of the empire’s constituent kingdoms, as well as the imperial family, will be there. Instead, the members of the Senate and Assembly are in attendance, as well as the governors of the kingdoms.

Vernon Boyd, the head of his personal security detail, escorts Derek into the main complex and down a hallway to a room where two guards stand outside the door. “Empress Caroline is waiting for you, Your Grace.” He says, bowing as he leaves. 

“Thank you, Boyd.” He responds, before stepping into the room he’s been reserved. Sure enough, his new mother-in-law stands there, admiring the azure tunic he’s chosen for the reception. She turns, the picture of grace, and smiles brilliantly at him. Caroline X reigned for only twenty three years, abdicating upon her son’s completion of his university schooling. Appearance-wise, she is nearly a picture of the Hale phenotype. She has a sharp jawline, and a sloped nose that rests above full lips. The one exception is her auburn hair, which is a stark departure from the typical honey blonde of ethnic Gauls. 

“I thought I’d see how my new son is doing.” Caroline smiles, drawing him in for a tight hug. “I remember my wedding day, it was all such a wild rush.” 

“Thank you, Your Grace. I’m still trying to process all of it, really.” Derek says, smiling back at her. 

She shakes her head. “None of this _ ‘Your Grace’ _nonsense, you’re family now. You can call me mom, or mother, or Caroline, or whatever you like. You are Emperor Consort, the only person who ranks above you is Diego. Even an Empress Emerita is below you at court.” 

“I still hold a great deal of respect for you, it might be a hard habit to break… Mom.” He grins. 

Caroline smiles another dazzling smile, before sobering. “Tonight is the first night of the rest of your life. Derek, I need to be candid with you. This first presentation is the one that will define you and define yours and Diego’s reign, however long it may be. Truthfully, I loathed the throne, and the only thing that got me through it was Tomas. He advised me, kept me sane, gave me a brilliant son who has wanted to rule for as long as he’s known he was born to. It’s not enough to just be there to parent the children, you have to be willing to sacrifice your wants for the good of more than four hundred million people.” 

“I know. From the minute Diego and I started courting, I knew what it would mean. There’s a reason they say _ ‘Heavy is the head that wears the crown.’ _I take that seriously.” Derek replies, and Caroline beams with pride.

“I’ll let you get dressed. Save me a dance at the reception.” She says, walking out of the room. 

With a heavy sigh, Derek changes into his reception outfit, a much more comfortable and modern suit, brilliant azure in its coloration and designed for slightly more relaxed affairs. Once his tie is in place, he walks out of the suite to find a severe but familiar face waiting for him outside of his chambers: Gerard Argent, Archduke of England and current head of the Imperial Council. 

“Your Grace.” The old man speaks with the traditional London accent, bowing his head in acknowledgement. 

“Archduke Argent.” He replies.

“If you will follow me.” Gerard requests, leading him out towards a car. “I know you know procedure, but I will remind you again. The council will line up for announcement to court by order of accession to the empire. That’s Francia, Scotland, Ireland, England, Benelux, Germany, Iberia, Italy, Bohemia, and Yugoslavia. However, I will be staying behind in order to announce you personally as you make your debut as Consort. Your family will be announced after you, they’re coming in a separate car.” 

“Thank you, Gerard.” He says. 

It’s a quick drive across the complex to the reception hall, which is brilliantly lit up like a diamond in the night. All along the steps leading up, the press eagerly stand, snapping photos like mad as the Senators, Assembly Members, and few members of the nobility enter into the hall. The procession stops as Anna Hale, Archduchess of Francia and head of the cadet branch of House Hale waits for her fellow council members to line up for their announcement. 

One by one, the highest lords and ladies of the empire glide in, the majordomo’s booming voice slightly muffled but still clear through the open doors of the hall. Derek swallows thickly and smiles to where the press have pointed their cameras at him as he steps out of the black Mercedes and takes a deep breath of the warm night air. 

_ ‘Her Grace, Natalie Martin, Archduchess of Scotland, Duchess of Scotia, Lady of Edinburgh!’ _The announcer’s voice bellows as the second of the ten council members goes into the reception. There’s a moment of polite applause, before the next name is called. 

_ ‘His Grace, Anson Nassau, Archduke of Benelux, Duke of Holland, Lord of Amsterdam!’ _

Derek walks up the steps, still smiling widely at the press. He spares a look back to see his family just now exiting their own vehicle. His mother gives an encouraging smile, which he returns with gratitude. Another step up, more photographers to pose for. Another name called. 

The world goes sideways. 

He can’t hear a thing, not even his own breathing. Just an endless ringing. Something hurts. Is that his blood on the steps? Why is it hot? A pair of hands grips him roughly, yanking him down the stairs, and his legs don’t even protest. Derek can’t think enough to resist, let alone try to force his limbs to comply. 

The hands belong to none other than Boyd, who is frantically yelling at him, but all he hears is ringing. They’re just getting back to the car when the first sound besides the ringing comes back to his ears. It’s a deep, all-consuming roar. Looking back, Derek sees the source of that roar.

The reception hall is consumed in flame. Enormous curtains of fire spew from every window, and a trillion shards of broken glass litter the ground, glinting and reflecting the fire like some hellish mimic of the stars above their heads. As he processes this sight, Derek’s hearing can pick up the screams. There are bodies on the steps, some of them are badly burned, others flung at such angles that they are unmistakably dead. All are horrible to see. Finally, he processes the frantic gibberish Boyd has been uttering into his earpiece.

“The crown is broken, I repeat, _ the crown is broken!” _He yells. 

To his left, Gerard Argent is there, blood pouring from a cut on his forehead, helping another member of the Imperial Council, the Archduke of Italy? He eases him into one of the nearby cars, and then Derek is himself is swept into the car he just exited. The drive to Versailles is frantic.

**-Ω-**

They don’t know where else to put him, so the palace staff deposits Derek into the Emperor’s rooms. He’s been here a few times, all of them with Diego. Now that he’s gone, it feels as alien and strange as any of the dozens of castles he’s been to over his years as the son of one of the empire’s most prominent duchesses. There are dozens of framed pictures over nearly every surface, but the one that catches his eye is one on the television stand in the living area. It’s his and Diego’s engagement photo, one they’d taken at home, back in Aberdeen. Just the sight of it is enough to bring the tears he’s been fighting since the bomb went off. 

“Y-Your Grace.” A soft, equally teary voice comes from the doorway. Derek whirls around, and locks eyes with a young palace aid, a pale boy who had to be his age, maybe younger, with curly ash blond hair. He’s clearly been crying, and is trying to put on a brave face. “Come with me, the Council needs to speak with you.” 

The walk to the chambers of the Imperial Council is utterly silent, but as they march through the hallways, there are staff members everywhere, all glued to various televisions as they play footage of the reception hall exploding into fire. The chiron reads _ ROYAL WEDDING RECEPTION BOMBED: EMPEROR PRESUMED DEAD._

The young aide knocks on a large set of ornate doors, and the unmistakable growl of Gerard’s accent breaks from behind it. “Come in.” 

They enter, and the aide scurries to where several others, Boyd included, sit in a line of chairs against a wall. The chamber is large, and in its center, a hemicircular table sits under a large chandelier. Guards are posted at every window, and of twelve chairs at the table, only seven are filled. 

“What is this?” Derek asks.

“Your ascension, Your Grace.” Argent responds. “As head of this Council, I hereby recognize the directive of His Grace, the late Emperor Leo Hale III, and anoint the next emperor. All rise for His Grace, the forty-fifth Regent of the Empire of Carolingia, Emperor Derek Hale.”

There’s only one thing for him to say. _ “What the fuck?!” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, this is a big experiment for me! Let me know what you think!


	2. Crown Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Derek ascends (Not literally) and we get our first decent look at the supporting cast.

“Sit down, Your Grace.” Gerard instructs to Derek, who follows, if only because he is too dumbstruck to resist. The Emperor’s seat at the table is nearly identical to the others, its sole difference is the white triskelion in the blue upholstery. It’s surprisingly comfortable.

The Archduke of England clears his gravelly, accented voice and begins explaining. “You know that Emperor Alexander IV’s reign was marked by tragedy. His firstborn, who would have ruled as Alexander V, died in 1895, a full twenty-three years before his father. Then, his grandson, Crown Prince Anson and nearly his entire family were killed when an avalanche struck their train passing through the Swiss Alps in 1917. This left Anson’s eldest son, Leo, who had just turned eighteen, as the new Crown Prince to his ninety-eight year old great-grandfather.” 

Derek growls with frustration. “Thank you for the trip back to eighth grade history, can we get to the point?”

“The point, Your Grace,” Gerard snipes back, “Is the Aberdeen Court period. Alexander IV’s health was failing in Paris, but he needed time to train his young successor. They retreated to  _ your family’s  _ castle in Aberdeen for the mountain air. Alexander died there, if you will recall, and Leo, now Leo III, kept court at Castle Collins for another three years until he was married. Aberdeen was the capital of the Empire for four years. Did it ever occur to you that a young man, isolated in a strange place and under a great deal of stress, might turn to certain… outlets?” 

For a moment, Derek’s mind can’t piece it together, until, all at once, the Archduke’s implication hits him like a bolt of lightning, and Gods how he wishes it hadn’t. His eyes go as wide as dinner plates, and the surviving members of the Imperial Council, all watching him warily, nod, some in confirmation, others in sympathy. 

“You aren’t saying…” He whispers. 

“I am. Leo III had a child before he married Empress Samira, a boy. His marriage to the youngest daughter of the Praetor of Iraq was an arranged one to keep our allies in Byzantium stable, and it was not generally a happy one, and Leo kept up this romance until the day he died. It got easier for them after the affair was revealed, but the child was kept secret, and told his father was the man his mother married, when he was not. That marriage, too, was one of convenience, one between friends to keep a dangerous truth hidden.” 

The new Emperor shakes his head in disbelief. “My… great-grandfather? Robert Collins?” 

“Robert Alexander Collins, Duke of Alba, was the only son of Duchess Olive Collins and Emperor Leo Hale III.” Argent confirms. “Leo left a secret edict changing the rules of succession. As far as the public was concerned, the Gaulian branch of House Hale established by Princess Anna after the War of the Silver Succession would succeed to the throne if the main royal line was wiped out. In reality, as we are forced to put into practice now, the throne was meant to fall to the heirs of his son with Duchess Olive. It was his way of making right that he had to deny his son his birthright for what he saw as petty politics.” 

_ “Fuck.”  _ Derek curses, burying his face in his hands and leaning against the fine mahogany of the table. 

“You can say that again.” Another voice breaks, one belonging to the young Archduke of Italy, Theo Raeken. “For a century, the Council keeps this a secret, and the day we finally get in a position to sort it all out, the unthinkable.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Derek sits up, suddenly suspicious. “What do you mean,  _ ‘Sort it all out,’?” _

Raeken suddenly looks extremely uncomfortable, and shifts in his seat uneasily, before further realization, this time accompanied by righteous anger, fills Derek, who gasps aloud. “That’s what the rush was. Getting me married off to Diego, getting us to produce an heir, it was all to remove me from the line of succession!” He accuses, pointing a finger squarely at Gerard. “I knew that introduction was off! You wanted to marry me off to my cousin, lie to us both about our relationship, then reveal it after we had a kid, so I couldn’t complain that you were eliminating my family’s birthright!” 

“You are correct, Your Grace.” Archduke Argent admits. “For a hundred years, we kept this secret even from the regents that followed Leo. It is a moot point, however, as an heir of Robert Collins’ will sit upon the throne, now.”

“Shouldn’t it be my mother, or at least Laura, since she’s the firstborn?” Derek asks, still fuming. 

“Leo’s words were kept vague, perhaps deliberately. He never specified that a firstborn heir was to succeed, only a true genetic heir to his son. You are just that, believe me, we tested your DNA. You are a Hale by right of blood, and now by right of marriage, Your Grace. You are the most legitimate heir to the throne.” 

“Okay, firstly, we  _ will  _ be discussing that gross violation of my privacy at some point, but we have bigger problems. Namely, how we’re going to deal with announcing this to the public, and reassembling the government.” 

The Archduchess of Iberia, Melissa Delgado, speaks up next. “Proconsul Morrell was not in the reception hall when the bomb went off, her flight was delayed out of Berlin.” She says. “We still have the head of the Senate. Assembly Speaker Lahey was not so fortunate.” 

“Small blessings.” Argent mutters. “The Cabinet?” 

“We lost the top three layers of every department, My Lord.” Boyd speaks up from his seat. “Including the commanders of the Imperial Guard and the Capital Legion.” 

“Congratulations, Captain Boyd. You are now head of the guard.” He replies dryly. “Unless the emperor objects?” 

“No.” Derek shakes his head. “That’s fine.” 

Boyd, now noticeably shaken, speaks up again. “We also lost most of the communications department and the executive aides. This is Erica Reyes, she was an assistant to the late communications director, and Isaac Lahey, he worked under the Chief of Staff, whose  _ entire  _ office, spare him, was lost.” 

“Well, Your Grace, it seems you have your Captain of the Imperial Guard, Palace Communications Director, and Chief of Staff present.” Gerard remarks.

“Lahey?” Derek asks. “As in…?”

The pale boy who fetched him from the emperor’s chambers nods, biting his lip. “My father.” He confirms. 

“I am so sorry.” He replies. “If you’d like to leave and go home, that’s fine.” 

“No, Your Grace, you need me here.” Isaac says, taking a deep breath to steady himself. “There’ll be time to grieve later.” 

At this point, the meeting devolves. The Archduchess of Bohemia brings up getting the General Staff into the palace, while Archduke Raeken begins placing calls to have the Proconsul’s helicopter come directly to Versailles, rather than landing at the Jane Hale International Airport in Paris. Other members of the palace staff come in to confer with the Imperial Council, and Isaac begins fielding phone calls from the monarchs of the rest of the Delian League. Eventually, Derek wanders out into the hallway, desperate for a moment away from it all. 

Just as it seems he’s finally caught his breath, his name is called out by several voices, ones he recognizes. Looking up from where he’d placed his head in his hands, Derek watches as his family desperately sprints towards him, all clearly having been crying, even his father. Several guards follow after, but make no move to catch up with the Collinses. It’s with ease that he lets himself fly into his mother’s arm. 

“Oh, Gods, Derek, I was  _ terrified.”  _ Talia says, stroking his hair. “Are you okay? That cut looks nasty.” She worries, thumbing gently at the split skin along his hairline that had bled quite profusely before the palace doctor had assured him it was just a cut and applied some steri strips to it.

“Fine, Mom, the doctor says it’s just a surface wound.” He replies. “Everyone, there’s something I have to tell you.” 

**-Ω-**

The suit is all black, including the tie and dress shirt. There’s a small lapel pin, the dark blue and white of their national banner plain, even if the triskelion on it is not. Derek’s crown was knocked from his head in the explosion and nobody had bothered to grab it, so he was left without one. His hair has been redone, going for smooth rather than spiked, and he’s been put in makeup to conceal the growing patch of bruises along his face from where he landed. 

The young woman now heading Palace Comms, Erica Reyes, had decided that the best place for the broadcast would be the Hall of Mirrors. This would be Derek’s first address as Emperor, the first glimpse that an empire in disarray has of their unlikely ruler. This speech would decide his success or failure. 

“Your Grace, we have an issue.” Erica says, approaching him. “We don’t have a regnal name for you. We need to choose one for the announcement ahead of the speech.”

“How do we go about that?” Derek asks. “I never even asked Diego how he got his.” 

She nods, understandingly. “Each regent chooses their own. Some choose names to portray how they wish to rule, others to honor their parents. Each regent of the Alexandrian Dynasty not named Alexander has had the name as one of their three regnals. Unless, of course, you intend to declare a new dynasty?”

“I’m a direct descendant of Alexander III, aren’t I? And the 1817 constitution is still in effect, isn’t it? I’d say I’m part of the Alexandrian Dynasty.” He says. “We’ve lost enough, we don’t need to lose an entire dynasty.”

His communications director nods. “So one of the names will be Alexander. So you’re aware, emperors wishing to honor empresses in their names have taken a masculine form in the past. Charles for Caroline, Marcus for Marguerite, Jonathan for Jane, the like.” 

“Marcus. She built something great out of tragedy.” He quickly says. “What about Raphael?” 

“Raphael?” She asks, confused. “The name fell out of style after after Raphael II abdicated in disgrace, but it  _ has  _ been almost two hundred fifty years.”

“Emperor Raphael I succeeded to the throne after his sister and then his nephew were assassinated. He was twenty, younger than I am, and he brought us back from a terrible civil war to found the Golden Dynasty. He was also gay. I think it’s a good choice.” He replies. 

Erica nods thoughtfully, humming to herself. “Derek Marcus Raphael Alexander Hale. How’s that?” 

“Perfect.” Derek says decisively. 

“You’re sure? Once we announce it, there’s no going back.”

In reply, he gives only a single nod. It’s the first thing he’s been sure of all night. 

**-Ω-**

The cameraman gives him the countdown on his fingers, and then the red light is on, and the entire world is staring at him. 

“Tonight, the Empire of Carolingia has suffered the most devastating attack in its history. In more than fifteen hundred years, we have never had such an event occur as to destroy nearly our entire government. Three regents of this empire, Empress Emeritus Marguerite IV, Empress Emeritus Caroline X, and my late husband Emperor Diego III have been killed. However, I assure both our empire and the broader world, that we are still here, and we will rebuild.”

“My name is Derek Marcus Raphael Alexander Hale. I am the forty-fifth regent of the Empire of Carolingia, the first to bear the name, and the seventh of the Alexandrian Dynasty. I have come to this position through a secret kept, most unjustly, for nearly a century, even from our regents. Emperor Leo III fathered a child in secret, one he had before Crown Princess Jane. This firstborn son was my great grandfather, Robert Collins. To make right this secret shame, my great-great grandfather changed the rules of succession, removing the Gaulian branch of House Hale and placing the descendants of his son as the heirs to the ruling line.” Derek pauses, allowing the world to process the words he’s just spoken.

“As Emperor Consort, I was the logical choice to inherit the throne. In the coming days, the palace will release DNA evidence confirming this relation, as well as the authentic, hand-written edict of Emperor Leo. However, we have more pressing matters to attend to. I promise this to you, my subjects: We will have justice. Whomsoever is responsible for this will suffer the direst of consequences. More than that, I can announce that Proconsul Morrell has survived, and is en route to Versailles as we speak to begin the process of rebuilding the government…”

**-Ω-**

Genim Stilinski, better known as Stiles, son of Lord John Stilinski of San Marino, watches the enormous television in the formal sitting room in rapt fascination, joined by the entire staff of Guaita Castello and his own father. Just six hours ago the news had been joyous, broadcasting images of the new Emperor Consort smiling like a fool before the massive crowds in Paris, and now a solemn Emperor Derek I was delivering his ascension address. How had the world changed so rapidly in such a short span of time? 

From the corner of his eye, he watches as Donatella, his father’s secretary, bends to whisper something in his ear. “Thank you, Donna.” Lord Stilinski says quietly, before motioning to his son to join him away from the others still glued to the ascension address. 

“What is it, Dad?” Stiles asks, now concerned. 

John’s face betrays his anxiety as he speaks. “We’ve just gotten a call from Versailles. San Marino will be hosting the Emperor for part of his Coronal Tour.”

“Why? We didn’t host Emperor Diego, and he ascended two years ago.”

“It seems they’re trying to rally up as much support as possible for him. He’s going to be stopping in all forty-four provinces and most of the major cities. They want him to have the support of the nobility, even minor nobles like us.” The elder says. 

Stiles blinks. “Is the ground he’s on that shaky?”

“Son, if it gets any shakier, he’ll fall, and may the Gods help us if it gets that bad.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, some of you might have questions. Teen Wolf has a lot of characters, many of which will appear in odd capacities, but I needed major characters for major rolls, so some of you may wonder why Theo is the Archduke of Italy, and that's because I needed a young asshole, so there we go. Also, as for why Melissa is going by her maiden name, well, she's Archduchess of Iberia, which is the peninsula with Spain and Portugal on it. I'm trying to be as respectful to naming customs as I can while operating with minimal and minor OC's. 
> 
> I apologize for the slow start, but there's a lot of worldbuilding to work through. It'll pick up soon. Next chapter, the morning after, Carolingia reacts to a new and unexpected Emperor, and the baddest bitch in the building arrives.


	3. Decisions, Decisions...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marin arrives to deliver some terrible news, Derek considers his future, and Gerard takes action.

Realizing he is extremely out of his depth, Derek politely excuses himself, citing his head wound and wishing to lie down. Boyd escorts him back to Diego’s-  _ his  _ chambers, where he finds his entire family anxiously glued to the television as footage of the reception hall exploding into flame plays on repeat. What’s truly stunning is how quickly it happened compared to how long those terrifying seconds felt. Derek would swear that from the explosion to him getting in the car must’ve been minutes, but the footage tells him that it was a little less than thirty seconds from the bomb going off to the cars ripping out of the Louvre. 

“Derek!” His parents cry out in twin relief, each coming to wrap their arms around him. His sisters follow after, and even Peter pulls him close. 

“I’m okay, really. They’re just waiting for the Proconsul to arrive.” He says over the voices talking all at once. 

His mother sits down, all business at once. “What are you going to do?” She asks.

“What do you mean?” 

“Derek, they just told us our entire family history has been a lie, and then placed a crown on your head. You’ve gone from a widower to the ruler of a nation in crisis.  _ What are you going to do?”  _ Talia emphasizes. 

He shakes his head to clear it. “I don’t know. Lead. It’s not like I can abdicate, there’s no one left to take the throne.” 

“Not true.” Laura interrupts. “Any of us, except for Dad.” 

_ “Laura.”  _ Evan Collins snaps. “Not appropriate.” 

“Do you think I should? Abdicate, I mean.” Derek asks, ignoring his father’s outburst. 

The room is suddenly silent, until his mother speaks again, clearly parsing her words. “You have to do whatever you think is right. If you don’t think you can lead, then you give it up, and name an heir who  _ can.  _ Whatever you do, we support you, you know that. But sweetheart, our family were the Kings and Queens of the Highlands for centuries before Alba was annexed by Scotia. Ruling  _ is  _ our blood. I believe you can do it.”

It suddenly occurs to Derek that he doesn’t have an heir, and given the need for stability, he needs to name one. “Shit.” He mutters to himself. “I need an heir.” 

“Nope.” Cora says. “Hard pass. I have no designs on the crown.” 

Derek smiles ruefully, he’d hoped Cora would want it, if only because his elder sister had been trained all her life to become Duchess of Alba. “Laura?” He asks.

“You sure?” She replies. “It’s a big deal, I’d be Crown Princess.” 

He nods, and just like that, Lady Laura Collins becomes Crown Princess Laura Alexandra Hale, Duchess of the Ile-de-Caroline. It’s the first thing that’s felt easy and natural since this horror started for Derek. 

**-Ω-**

The sapphire blue helicopter glides smoothly down onto the landing pad on the palace roof, a white phoenix rising from the flames proudly blazoned on its sides, and from it emerges a stately-looking woman with cocoa colored skin wearing a lengthy black gown that sparkles in the industrial lights on the rooftop. Her hair is pinned up in elegant swirls, and as beautiful as she is, her face is stormy with anger. 

The palace guards salute Proconsul Marin Morrell as she stalks her way towards the door to enter the building, and she pays them no mind, her own guards trailing behind with their weapons slung over their shoulders. It takes nearly five minutes to reach from the pad to the chambers of the Imperial Council, and Morrell does not even wait to be announced before she is entering the chambers and marching to where Archduke Argent sits at the table, conferring with a general. 

“What in the Hell are you doing?!” She demands. “Last I knew, the Senate has to recognize the ascension of a monarch, and I was not informed of any of this!” 

Argent gently sets down the tablet he’s pouring over, and waives off the general. “Madam Proconsul, I’m gratified to see you safe.” He calmly replies. 

Morrell scoffs. “Enough platitudes, Gerard. What is this nonsense?!”

“Derek  _ is  _ the legitimate heir to the throne, and continuity of government clearly states that in the event of the death of the monarch and the Senate is unable to discharge its duties, the Imperial Council has the authority to recognize the ascension of a new regent. With the Senate wiped out and you unable to be contacted, we made the decision to recognize Derek per the secret edict of Leo III. Here it is, you’re welcome to read it.” 

He slides a faded piece of paper to her, one that is typed out in the blocky, typewriter style of the 1920’s, with a wax seal on the bottom and a massive signature. “It’s authentic, I assure you. We’re bringing in handwriting analysts from the States and having it carbon dated, and we’re doing DNA tests on the corpses of Emperor Leo and Robert Collins, as well as saliva from Derek’s grandmother and mother to confirm that he is the great-great grandson of Leo III. There will be no doubt.” 

The Proconsul scoffs. “You sound quite pleased with yourself, and Derek might be who you say he is, but you have a  _ very  _ large problem. The edict states that the Collinses succeed to the throne only if there is no one left from the Parisian branch of House Hale. You jumped the gun.” 

“What are you talking about?” The Archduke of England demands. “There’s a survivor?” 

“Several, in fact.” She confirms. “Including one member of the imperial family. Prince Michael, Empress Caroline’s younger brother.” 

Gerard goes white as a sheet at that. “W-what is his condition?” 

“First and second degree burns over much of his body. He was out on the mezzanine, and he lost a leg when the back wall collapsed. He’s comatose, and we don’t believe his wife and daughter made it out.” 

“You want to crown a middle-aged, and now childless, comatose  _ cripple  _ when we have a young and healthy man who is a legitimate Hale by both blood and marriage? Are you mad?!” He demands.

“I am simply informing you of the situation. Luckily for the council, Michael’s survival is currently a state secret. It seems that even if you couldn’t reach me, I could reach others. He’s in the ICU under heavy guard at Pantheon Hospital, across from Notre Dame.” She cooly replies. “I suggest you inform Emperor Derek, he may wish to abdicate in light of this news. I’d even suggest it.” 

“You’d love that, wouldn’t you? Then you get to appoint a regency, someone the Senate can bend to its will, to  _ your  _ will.” Argent snarls. 

Morrell snaps at once. “Archduke Argent, need I remind you that as Proconsul, I am second only to the emperor in terms of rank? You  _ will  _ afford me the respect my position is afforded by the constitution.” 

“Of course, Madam Proconsul. My sincerest apologies.” He gives a sarcastic bow.

**-Ω-**

It’s nearly dawn when Isaac, powered on espresso, sheer grit, and nothing else, knocks on the Emperor’s bedroom. “Your Grace?” He asks. “I’m sorry to wake you, but we have matters to discuss. I asked Boyd what you like, and brought a mocha, four sugars and whipped cream.” 

Derek answers, wearing only a pair of black silk pajama pants and their matching robe, his dark hair sticking up in all directions. “So it wasn’t a nightmare.” He says morosely. “I really am the emperor.” 

“I’m afraid so, Your Grace.” The Chief of Staff says.

“Could you… could you do me a favor, Isaac?” Derek asks, his voice still sleep-thick. “I get that there’s a certain level of decorum involved here, but when it’s just us, or my family, would you call me Derek? Please?” 

“Gladly… Derek.” He shyly says. 

“Thank you. Now, you said we have matters to discuss?” The emperor asks.

Isaac pulls out a tablet which shows a map that is criss-crossed by lines, intersecting dozens of major cities throughout the empire. “After the state funerals for your three predecessors, we will have to depart for the Coronal Tour. Unlike previous regents, this will be a complete tour of the empire. We are going to visit all forty-four provinces from Ulster to Kosovo, and every single one in between. The kingdom with the most stops is Italy, where we have eleven cities and seven provinces to hit.” 

“We need to drum up popular support, make sure as many people as people see me.” Derek replies. 

“More than that, we need the support of the nobles. We may be a constitutional federal monarchy, but with the governors gone, the dukes and duchesses act in their stead, which means that they appoint the Senators until we can hold special elections.” Isaac says. “We need a Senate and Assembly that will cooperate with your agenda.” 

The rest of the morning is spent in conference between the two of them, as Isaac explains to him the carefully detailed tour he’s planned. It will last nearly three months, beginning in Paris and ending in Pristina, Kosovo, as the tour goes by order of accession into Carolingia. Derek will bounce between castles and estates in the forty-four provinces, as for him to stay in a hotel would be seen as a deep slight to the duke or duchess of the province.

Eventually, Erica Reyes, the new Communications Director, slips into the room bearing a proper breakfast. She explains that the press is practically climbing over the gates of Versailles to try and get  _ something  _ from the government. Derek confers with Boyd, who recommends letting in a handful of the major networks for a press conference, including a few from the other Delian member states, as well as the United States and China. After eating a refreshing herself, Erica and Boyd depart to gather members of the guard and host a conference outside of the palace for security reasons. 

**-Ω-**

It was stunningly easy for Archduke Gerard Argent to gain private access to the suite the comatose Prince Michael Hale was being kept under extremely tight lock in. His name and station have always been something of a skeleton key, but this is by far the most devious reason he has used them for.

Staring at the man on the bed, the only noises in the room are the steady beeping of the elektrokardiogram and Prince Michael’s raspy breathing. Gerard reflects with a mix of anger and pity at the broken prince laying before him. True to Morrell’s word, his left leg has been amputated above the knee. Apparently, it was crushed by a column. He is wrapped in gauze over much of his body, including half of his face. The other half is still bright pink, and the one visible eyebrow has been singed off. 

_ This  _ is the threat to a strong emperor? This broken little man, whose wife and sole heir perished in the explosion that decapitated their government? No, absolutely not. He has a duty to the empire, to his emperor, to protect them both from all enemies, foreign  _ and  _ domestic. Through no fault of his own, Prince Michael has become an enemy of the crown, and enemies must be dealt with as they arise. 

“I’m so sorry, Your Grace.” Gerard softly says. He bends down, and says a quick prayer to the Gods for Michael’s soul, and then proceeds to do the hard work that must be done. 

Fishing a used syringe out of the sharps bin, he pulls it down, making sure it is filled with air, before he presses the needle into the IV line. With a final steadying breath, Gerard presses down the plunger and watches as the embolism travels down the line, finally disappearing under the bandages as it slides into Michael’s arm. 

Seconds later, the machines the prince is hooked up to began to wail their alarms, and the archduke schools his face into one of panic. “Help! He’s going into shock!” He bellows, impressing himself with just how convincing the fear and confusion in his voice sounds.  _ “Help!” _

It takes only seconds for a full team to rush in with a crash cart, but he knows it’s too late. Of course it’s too late, the embolism probably went straight to his heart, and will likely be undetectable. Even if it is, they’ll blame it on the amputation surgery, or the trauma of having his leg crushed in the first place. 

It’s the sweetest sound he’s heard in the twelve hours since it all began, the flatline of the EKG. The sweet sound that tells him that Derek’s reign is secure. That  _ Carolingia  _ is secure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, to be clear, Marin is not the bad guy here, but Gerard definitely circumvented procedure in crowning Derek. Her ultimate goal is to protect the legitimacy of the crown, and Derek's legitimacy is still in question. As for Gerard, it's fun to write him. I promise, Derek and Stiles will FINALLY meet next chapter, which will deal with the state funerals of not one, not two, but three rulers who died in the attack.


	4. Triskelion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this in a mad dash, so holler at me for any mistakes. As promised, Derek and Stiles meet, along with quite a few new friends!

Stiles has visited Paris plenty of times in his life. San Marino is a major city, after all, one he will someday be lord of. This time, however, it is different. There’s a horrible sense of mourning over the usually bright city, and there is also a clearly ramped up security presence. With world leaders and the whole of the Carolingian nobility on arrival, the Jane Hale International Airport has been locked down incredibly tight. 

The drive into the city itself takes some time, and, horrifyingly, it takes them right past the bombed-out ruins of the reception hall. The outer shell of the building is almost totally intact, but the roof has collapsed, and black scorch marks stain the tan stone of the walls where the windows once were. His father, already somber, wipes away tears, and it’s all Stiles has not to cry with him. 

Their car pulls into a hotel across the Seine from Notre Dame, where the joint funeral of Emperor Diego and Empresses Marguerite and Caroline will be held tomorrow. Pantheon Island is on lockdown for the funeral, so they won’t be visiting until the services are held. Instead, they will be holed up in the hotel with hundreds of other nobles here for the services and kept under heavily armed guard. Paris is perhaps the most secure city in the world at the moment, and even still, it does not feel safe.

**-Ω-**

The past three weeks have been nothing but funerals and receptions and video conferences with heads of state and the leaders of international organizations. Derek has been run ragged just trying to do that, on top of security briefings from the military and Crown Intelligence Service, all of whom still have extremely few viable leads on the cause of the bombing. No known terrorist or separatist group has taken credit, and the few adversary states Carolingia has all vehemently deny the act and have offered their full assistance in searching for the culprits. It’s frustrating as all Hell. 

The one spot of good news has been the survival of Archduchess Anna Hale’s infant daughter Charlotte, who was back in Marseilles rather than in attendance of the wedding and reception. Obviously, an infant is unfit to serve as Archduchess, so her godmother, one Lady Kira Yukimura, has been named Duchess Regent of Gaulia for the duration of Charlotte’s minority. Now, however, is the most stressful part of his reign yet, meeting the five other heads of state from the Delian League. 

The Delian League was founded between Poland, Byzantium, Scandinavia, and Carolingia during the Carolingian Revolution to overthrow France and King Phillippe IV, Empress Marguerite’s estranged husband. More than fifteen hundred years later, it has expanded to include the Kingdom of Africa and the State of Tibet, and become a defining feature of geopolitics, second only to NATO and the United Nations in terms of scale and influence. 

“Derek?” Isaac asks, knocking on the open door to his desk, where he pours over the latest intelligence briefings on the attack. “They’re here.”

He turns around, and nods. “Thank you, Isaac. Could I get you to do me a favor?”

“What do you need?” 

“Can you put my crown on? I still haven’t quite gotten the hang of it, it’s heavier than my old one.” Derek sheepishly requests. 

Isaac smiles. “Of course.” He walks across the room, and pulls the silver crown off of the bust it’s kept on.

Derek’s regnal crown is a more solidified take on his consort crown, and is absent the large jewels of its predecessor. Instead of thin wisps of silver intertwined in Celtic knots, it is solid platinum, with a thick band that has similar Celtic symbols in relief on it, which flow into a saltire at the very back of his head, representing the flag of his native Scotland. 

The front rises into a half circle coming off of the band, with a triskelion emblazoned over it. He’s proud of it, even more proud than his consort crown, because this is the union of who he was and who he has become. It is symbolic of the birth of his reign. Like his crown, Derek’s regnal motto is dedicated to rebirth. He has chosen the motto _ ‘A Phoenix Rising’, _which is also representative of the symbol of House Hale, a stylized silver phoenix rising on a blue background. 

With great care, Isaac places the heavy crown upon his head, and smiles again at him. “Perfect.” He says before leading him to the receiving hall where the other monarchs from the League wait for him.

The five people, two men and three women, range in age from thirty-four to seventy-seven. At twenty-two, Derek is the youngest of the League rulers. Closest to him is the Queen of Scandinavia, dressed in a deep violet pencil skirt and blazer, followed by the Emperor of Byzantium in sapphire blue formal chlamys and a golden laurel, the Queen of Africa in a richly patterned dress of earth tones, and in place of a crown, she wears a bright yellow gele with intricate folds. After her, the King of Poland stands in a black suit with an ascot in place of a tie, and lastly the Dalai Lama of Tibet is wrapped in traditional orange and red robes, with her hair falling straight to her shoulders.

“Your Graces and Majesties, may I present His Grace, Derek Marcus Raphael Alexander Hale, Emperor of Carolingia?” Isaac says formally. The five other monarchs bow, and he does the same, before his Chief of Staff turns to address Derek directly. 

“Your Grace, I present to you Her Royal Highness, Helene Elstad IX, Queen of the Union of Scandinavian Kingdoms, His Grace, Harmonios Galatas III, Emperor of Byzantium and Lord of Persia, Her Majesty Amadi Okore IV, Queen of All Africans, His Highness Casimir Novak XIII, King of Poland, and Sengi Gyatso, Dalai Lama of Tibet and Lady of the Plateau.” 

Derek turns, laying a hand on his advisor’s shoulder. “Thank you, Isaac. That will be all.” He says softly. 

“Of course. Contact me if you require any assistance, Your Grace.” He replies, bowing to the six regents in the room.

The young emperor faces his guests, and smiles warmly. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you all. I know we weren’t due to meet until the next meeting of the League at Delos, and the circumstances are… _ unthinkable, _but I am very glad you’re all here.” 

Emperor Harmonios returns the kind smile. “For more than a thousand years, we have stood together through civil wars, incursions, and trade disputes. We would never abandon any of us in their darkest hours.” 

“Harmonios is right. These are extraordinary circumstances, but we stand strong together. What’s a little dynastic intrigue? God knows that all of us have colorful family histories.” The Dalai Lama says, quite flippantly, which apparently catches Derek visibly off-guard, as Queen Helene rests a hand on his shoulder. 

“Sengi,” She says, half admonishing and half amused, “The poor boy has never met us, let alone seen us in private. He doesn’t realize how we interact together.” 

“How you…?” Derek asks, now confused. 

Casimir Novak speaks up next. “The six of us are some of the only people who understand what each other is going through. We’re the inheritors of a millennia-old alliance and the rulers of three entire _ continents. _We’re more than just heads of state, we see each other as personal friends. Feel free to call us by our first names, and you don’t have to be so formal.”

“That… actually sounds wonderful.” He says, now relieved. “With my family busy with… well, everything, and the endless calls from leaders and diplomats, I am so sick of having to be constantly acting in a way that’s _ ‘suitable for an emperor’.” _he says in a surprisingly good impression of Archduke Gerard’s English accent. 

“It’s hard, that’s why we let our hair down with one another.” Amadi says, seating herself on a couch and crossing her legs. 

“And the nonsense with Prince Michael? The press went insane for a week over that one, rest his soul.” Derek gripes. His late husband’s uncle had survived the explosion, albeit terribly injured, and died only hours later from complications due to his injuries, which had led to some questioning whether his coronation had been appropriate. It was a moot point, but it still placed more stress on his already thinly-supported reign. 

“Securing legitimacy is one of the hardest parts of ruling.” Casimir intones. “I succeeded my grandmother ahead of my father, who was still alive, and it took months for the uproar to settle.” 

“Now, Derek, let’s talk about tomorrow.” Helene says, sitting down and shifting into business mode like a switch was flipped.

**-Ω-**

He wishes he could remember the funeral. In truth, it was like Derek wasn’t even there. Honestly, he wasn’t, mentally speaking. The three coffins, each a perfect rectangle with the Carolingian flag draped over it, occupied the altar that he was married upon less than a month ago. There were already services for the King Father and King Emeritus, but this was _ the _service. Three regents with a combined fifty years of ruling under their belts were struck down in one fell swoop, along with 1,309 others. 

Thankfully, Derek wasn’t expected to speak, as he wasn’t even sure if he could. Instead, he sat in the front row of the cathedral and simply stared numbly at the caskets, desperately trying, and only occasionally failing, to hold back the tears that flowed from his otherwise statuesque face. With all of Pantheon Island and the surrounding area completely locked down, Derek was able to proceed outside and accept the condolences of the many guests, ranging from the American President to the Lady of Szeged, Hungary. 

About halfway through the line of well-wishers came two lords, each dressed in black suits with matching robin’s egg blue ties. “Your Grace, I’m John Stilinski, Lord of San Marino, and this is my son and heir, Sir Genim Stilinski.” 

“I prefer Stiles, Your Grace.” The younger man quickly interjected, only to receive a scathing side-eye from his father. It is this extremely minor breach of conduct that catches Derek’s eye, and forces him to closely study the young man before him, rather than just trying to force pleasantries. 

He’s handsome in an unorthodox way, pale and marked by moles, with a square jaw, honey colored eyes and a face that seems to be permanently cocked in an impish half smile. If Derek had to guess, he’d say that Genim, or… Stiles? Was only twenty or so. 

“Genim.” Lord Stilinski says under his breath, clearly annoyed.

Suddenly, Derek’s brain comes back to the moment, and he clears his throat, trying not to flush with embarrassment. “It’s perfectly fine, Lord Stilinski. It’s a pleasure to meet you, and Stiles as well.” 

That line draws a smug look out of Stiles, but Derek ignores him and continues on addressing the elder. “You said San Marino? I’ll be spending three days there on the Coronal Tour.” 

“We are preparing the guest suite as we speak, Your Grace.” John Stilinski says, a note of pride. “The view from Guaita Castello is unmatched through all of Italy.” 

“I look forward to it.” He replies. “Thank you, gentlemen, for coming to this. I know no one imagined such a travesty, but it’s good to see the country rallying.” 

The Lord of San Marino nods. “I speak for my city when I say that we stand loyally with the crown, and with House Hale.”

“Your support means the world. I’m sorry to rush you off, but I have a great deal more people to speak to.” Derek says. “I’ll see you two soon.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Both men say, bowing to him before leaving. 

That encounter with Stiles stays inside his head all throughout the rest of the event.

**-Ω-**

In a small village just outside of Kosovo, a man sits at a table where a small flatscreen shows footage of the funerals live from Paris. He gives a wry grin at the boy pretending to be an emperor, so clearly out of his depth it’s almost pitiable. _ Almost. _ Just as expected, the burner phone on the table ahead of him rings, the contact on flashing only as _ ‘The Patron’. _

“Boss. Good to hear from you.” The man says.

_ ‘The same to you, Goran. I trust you’re watching our illustrious emperor?’ _A disguised voice crackles over the line.

He snickers. “I wouldn’t call the twerp illustrious, but yes, I am.” 

_ ‘Good. Soon enough, we will move against him as well. Don’t worry, you’ll be rewarded for this. After all, there’s an entire empire hanging in the balance.’ _

“Then let’s tip the balance. What’s the plan?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, that thing with all the royal titles was fun. Wait till y'all see Derek's FULL title, it's basically a paragraph in and of itself. Let me know what you think, because I am writing this bitch 90% blind. All I know is where it ends.


	5. Coronation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a filler chapter, be warned. It does, however, give a sense of the scale of history in this world I've made.

The last time Derek took this long walk, it was to the waiting arms of his husband, and with his mother by his side. Now, as he waits to march up to the Altar of the Gods in the Pantheon of Notre Dame, he does so alone, with only the austere Proconsul Marin Morrell to greet him. In her hands is the crown that has already graced his head, but never in public. The room is silent but for the combined sound of thousands breathing all at once, and then the imperial anthem is playing, and he marches toward destiny. 

All eyes are on him. Some fearful, others suspicious, some hopeful, others resolute. His outfit is sapphire blue, with silver accents, and a cape of brilliant white clasped to his shoulder pads. Derek’s shoes, polished to a mirror shine, click against the ancient marble floors. He can feel the eyes of the statues of their many Gods upon him, but he pays no attention to them, all he does is silently ask for their blessing. Reaching the steps of the altar, Derek bows before Proconsul Morrell.

“Derek of House Hale.” She begins, her voice echoing throughout the sanctuary. “You kneel before me as claimant to the Crown of the Empire of Carolingia. You seek claim to the throne of Marguerite and Caroline, of Raphael and Alexander, of Jane and Diego, and so many others.”

He knows this part. He’s rehearsed his lines dozens of times for days on end. “So I do, my lady.”

“Do you avow that you are of the blood of the House Hale and legitimately named as such?”

“So I do, my lady.”

“Do you avow that you shall uphold the many rules and laws of this land, that you shall defend it from all enemies, even if they come in the guise of friends and lovers, that you shall forever honor the Constitution of the Empire, and that you shall fulfill all your sacred duties as sovereign of this empire and its people?”

“So I do, my lady.” 

“Then, as Proconsul of the Imperial Senate, I, Marin Morrell, do name you Emperor Derek I of House Hale, forty-fifth regent of the Empire of Carolingia.” With great care, she places his crown upon his head. “Arise, Your Grace.” She instructs, and Derek follows.

“My Lords and Ladies, I present to you His Grace, Derek Marcus Raphael Alexander Hale, Emperor of Carolingia, King of Francia, Scotland, Ireland, England, Benelux, Germany, Iberia, Italy, Bohemia, and Yugoslavia, Consul of the Senate, By the Grace of the Gods Supreme Commander of the Armed Forces and Protector of the Realms, King of Scots, Rí na Gaeilge, Prince of Wales, Grand Duke of Luxembourg, Kaiser of Germania, Imperator Italica, Regent Yugoslavia, and Consort Emeritus. All hail His Grace, Emperor Derek!” 

There had been more than a little debate about that last title, but Derek had been insistent to his council. He _ was _a widowed Imperial Consort, and so the title was his. He would honor his dead husband by bearing it even as he took the throne after him. There wasn’t much that could be done, but this was something. Diego had deserved so much better, they all had. Now he’s left in the ruins to pick up the pieces, and he will do so with honor.

The crowd speaks as one. “All hail!” They cry, and everyone, even those who have regarded him with with unfriendly eyes, bow.

So there it is. The formalities are done, the questions have been answered. He is the emperor. Gods, have there even been such bitter words spoken?

**-Ω-**

There’s no reception, there won’t be for three months, until he returns home from his Coronal Tour. Speaking of, that is the primary issue at the council meeting, where to host the reception?

“What about the Louvre’s Grand Ballroom?” Archduke Raeken suggests. “It’s on the same property as Alexander’s Hall, and the space is there.” 

Archduchess Delgado interjects. “The Grand Ballroom is a statue gallery now, and some of those pieces predate the empire. Moving them will come at considerable cost and effort atop of what we already have to manage.” 

“The Hall of Mirrors?” Isaac throws out. “We’ve held conferences there before, what’s a reception for a coronation?” 

An idea strikes Derek, one he thinks would make for perfect symbolism. He is the phoenix, after all, and so he gestures for Boyd to come close and whispers in his ear. “Bring me the report on Alexander’s Hall, please.” He asks. 

Moments later, after skimming the reports to his satisfaction, Derek holds up a hand, and the debate goes quiet. “The reports say that the tradition hall’s superstructure is intact and stable. They’ve already cleared most of the debris and collected all of the bodies. I say we hold the reception there.” 

“Your Grace, is that wise? Some might see the emperor and nobility sitting amongst ruins as… well, not a good thing.” Gerard says. 

“I see it as an excellent thing. I’ve had enough people questioning little breaks from tradition, we won’t break from this one. Every major celebration since 1820 has been held there, and so will this one. We can string fairy lights between the columns and over the dance floor, and set up mobile restrooms and buffet stations. We can dance under the moon and stars of the open roof. We will show those who wish to make us afraid that they will not drive us from the places we belong.” He declares, steadfast. The room is silent, until a delicate, lowland-accented voice breaks. 

“I agree with His Grace.” The voice belongs to none other than the new Archduchess of Scotland, Lydia Martin, whose mother was killed in the blast. “We will take back what they have sought to rob us of.” 

It’s no surprise that Lydia has sided with him. They grew up together as the children of the two most powerful families in Scotland. Even if she spoke with the lowland accent and he with the mainland, they had been friends for years until their paths diverged when they went to their separate secondary schools. 

“It can be an intimate, more relaxed event. We’ll set up a memorial wall with the names of the fallen and candles for the guests to light for their souls.” Derek continues. “Put long, gossamer curtains over the window frames, but be sure to keep those away from any open flames. Use the time I’m gone on tour to get the place ready.” 

Marin Morrell clears her throat. “Is that an order, Your Grace?” 

He nods decisively. “It is.” 

“You heard your emperor. Let’s start drafting plans for the hall.” 

And that is that. 

**-Ω-**

Thousands have lined themselves up at JHI to watch the emperor and his staff depart by private jet for the first stop on the tour, the historical seat of House Hale, Longchamp Palace in Marseilles. They wave the triskelion flag of the empire, and hold signs of well wishes. Some throw white roses, others still just stand and wave. It really feels like unity. 

Stepping out of the Mercedes that has driven them to the tarmac, Derek grins widely at the crowd and waves as Isaac, Erica, and Boyd head for the plane. On a whim, he walks over to where the crowds have gathered behind a barricade and begins to shake hands, accepting blessings and posing for selfies with the people. Among them are people who lost loved ones in the bombing, and he offers them sincere condolences. After about fifteen minutes, a member of the guard comes over and reminds him that he’s going to make their flight late, and the young emperor sighs, but follows him onto the jet. 

“Your Grace, that was extremely irresponsible.” Boyd says, crossing his arms. “If it wasn’t a bad look to drag you away from the people I would have gotten off of this plane and done it myself. All it takes is a hidden blade or a vial of poison. Hell, someone could’ve gotten close enough to snap your neck!” 

Derek sits down next to Isaac and across from Erica and Boyd and rolls his eyes. “Look, it’s important that the people feel the crown is accessible to them. A few selfies, some handshakes, and some kissed babies is all it takes to soothe the _ extremely _ frayed nerves of the empire. And what did I tell you about the _ ‘Your Grace’ _crap?”

Boyd sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. _ “Derek.” _He says. “I understand wanting to be accessible. I will happily set up secure areas where you can have meet-and-greets with people, but I need to be able to keep you safe. Need I remind you that Laura’s status as Crown Princess is still technically informal until the new Senate is appointed to confirm it? Do you really want to stress test the constitution any further than it already has been?” 

“No.” He sighs.

“Then _ do not die. _Make my life easier, please.”

“Fine.” 

**-Ω-**

Touchdown at Marseilles comes less than two hours later. As it was with Paris, there is a crowd of thousands waiting along the tarmac. The only difference is that this crowd is held back by actual soldiers, all of them holding very large guns. Waiting at the bottom of the stairs is a young Asian woman in a pale blue suit waits for them, flanked by her own armed guard. 

“Your Grace.” She bows. “I am Lady Kira Yukimura, the Duchess Regent of Gaulia.”

“And the Archduchess Regent of Francia.” Derek replies. “We were hoping you would be able to attend the coronation.” 

Again, the young woman bows. “I beg your forgiveness, Your Grace. Charlotte- er, the Archduchess is having difficulty adapting to her mother not being here. She doesn’t understand yet that she isn’t coming back.”

The emperor nods understandingly. “I can imagine that’s quite difficult, especially in light of the fact that you lost a lot of friends on that night. I’m sure we could arrange for you to attend council meetings through video conference or something.” 

“That might be best, Your Grace.” Lady Yukimura replies. 

Erica comes over and whispers into his ear. “Derek, they’d like you to do a press gaggle. Ten minutes, just enough to speak to a few reporters from the major papers and networks?” 

“That’s fine.” He nods. “If you’ll excuse me, my lady, I need to speak to the press. I’ll see you at Longchamp?”

“I look forward to it.” She bows _ a third time, _and Derek has to suppress the urge to roll his eyes. He’s not that intimidating, is he?

Derek and Erica walk over to where the press have gathered with their cameras, voice recorders, and notebook pulled out and ready. “All right, everyone,” Erica says loudly, gesturing at them to quiet. “His Grace has time for a few questions, but we _ are _on a schedule. Let’s make this quick and easy, please. We’ll start with CBC, James?” She points to a reporter from the Carolingian Broadcast Channel. 

“Uh, yes, Your Grace, with the special elections for the Assembly getting prepared and the Senate soon to be appointed, do you plan on endorsing Proconsul Morrell to retain her position, especially given reports that she wanted you to abdicate the night of the bombing?” The reporter asks.

Derek swallows. He wasn’t aware that the internal events of the palace from that night had made it to the press, but he realizes that he has to address them now, or they will plague his working relationship with Morrell until her consulship ends.

“Well, Proconsul Morrell and I have been working very well under the continuity of government protocols. I may not have been thrilled that she wished me to give up the crown, but I also understand that we were in a position our constitution had never faced, and that she was simply looking out for the best interests of the nation. I fully endorse her to continue her consulship, and I sincerely hope that the new Senate will permit her to do so.” He says, hoping to the Gods it was the right thing.

“Your Grace, Kirsten Hill, from the _ Times. _ Do you have concerns about the constitutionality of naming your _ older _sister as your heir to the throne?” A young woman with a London accent asks. 

He shakes his head emphatically. This one he can be more comfortable with. “Not at all. After the assassination Emperor Jacques II, who need I remind you was just three years old, the Senate appointed his mother’s younger brother as Raphael I. There is ample precedent for an emperor to be succeeded by someone older than them.” 

The questions become easier after that, and ten minutes after he set foot on the ground, Derek is in the car and headed for Longchamp Palace. When they get to the place, he’s overwhelmed by the sight of it. The palace is, in truth, to smaller manors that face one another and linked by a massive colonnade. When it was built, the colonnade was beautiful, but rather spartan, but that changed in 699 AE after the Conquest of the British Isles. 

Installed at the peak of the curved passage was a massive statue that showed the four figures most essential in building the empire, Empress Marguerite, who fell in battle against her own husband, Empress Caroline, who finished her mother’s work and built the empire, Prince Brennan O’Brien, who had been the third son of the Irish King and the sole survivor of his family’s massacre at the hands of the British and, for a time, Caroline’s heir until her first child was born. Lastly, there was Anne Martin, the last Queen of Scots, who had been subjugated by the English crown, only to swear fealty to Caroline and bring Scotland into the empire.

Derek is overwhelmed by the sight of these statues, all of whom are direct ancestors of his. Both the Hales and Collinses had married plenty of members of the O’Briens and Martins, and now he sits on the throne their sacrifices built. This palace, long predating even the birth of France before it became Carolingia, has held his ancestors for over two thousand years. 

“It’s something, isn’t it?” Isaac asks. “I was here once before, during your husband’s tour. The staff are lovely people.” 

“It really is.” He agrees. “Let’s go make our rounds.”

**-Ω-**

Two days in Marseilles becomes another two in Verdun, and another two in Bordeaux. After that, they have their next hosting with a member of the Imperial Council in Edinburgh. It feels like coming home, even if Derek is still hundreds of miles from his native Aberdeen, surrounded by the southern accent of Old Scots, so unlike the mainland tones he knows in the north. 

Lydia Martin, the new Archduchess, waits for him at the gates of Edinburgh Castle, which has been the seat of House Martin since the 200’s. She wears a plain grey pantsuit, but the belt that sits across her waist is patterned in the teal tartan of her house. “Your Grace.” She says, curtseying. 

“My Lady.” He replies, bowing to her. “You honor us with your hospitality.” 

“The Crown honors Scotland with its presence.” Lydia says, and then visibly relaxes when the formalities are finished. “Come in, old friend. We have quite a dinner prepared.” 

Derek gives a very unroyal snort. “It’s a good thing I started skipping lunch. This tour is going to make me fat.” 

True to her word, the feast laid out is truly an impressive one. Countless dishes reflect the diversity of the empire, from traditional Scottish haggis to Kosovar flija, with the great geographic and gastronomic spread going from one corner of Carolingia to the other. The entirety of the nobility from Scotia is present, most of whom Derek know quite well. It’s a refreshing change from cavorting around Francia, where the nobles were polite, but clearly didn’t trust the Scotsman now sitting on the throne. According to Isaac, his support is strongest in Scotland, where the approval rating of the crown sits in the mid-nineties. 

The meal is joyous, and stretches long into the night. By the end of it, he’s a little tipsy and more than a little lonely. Sitting in his chambers, Derek finds his thoughts drifting to that young lordling, the one with the odd name who would one day rule San Marino. He’d felt desire, something that he hadn’t since the last time he had seen Diego all dressed in his finery for the reception. 

Derek sighs. Is he truly so craven? Shouldn’t he at least observe a ten year mourning period or something, wasn’t that was past consorts have done when they’ve been widowed young enough to remarry? Then again, he isn’t just a consort, he’s the Emperor, and every Emperor needs a Crown Prince or Princess. Laura can’t fill that position forever, and his reign needs to be secured. 

He falls asleep mulling over the bitterly mixed taste of grief and desire, as well as the equally bitter flavor of the pressure of ruling. It’s a blessedly dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I named the ruling family of Ireland the O'Briens, sue me. It works too damn well. Derek’s titles are a mouthful and saying them aloud is fun! There's forty-four provinces to the empire, and we are not going to see them all. Next chapter, we visit the Argents on their turf, Derek and Stiles reunite in San Marino, and the bombers make their next move.


	6. The Tour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kate "Bad Touch" Argent shows up, and Derek learns to appreciate a good view. Great times!

London. The most populous city in all the empire, and a massive sprawl of rowhouses clustered around a downtown skyline dominated by the Shard, the Gherkin, and the Canary Wharf neighborhood. Derek and his entourage fly by helicopter from Heathrow to Buckingham Palace, once the seat of the mighty United Kingdom of Great Britain, Ireland, and the Low Countries before Caroline I subjugated it, and now the seat of House Argent since 1817 and the extinction of the Plantagenets who ruled it for a millennia before them. 

Touching down, he is met by the familiar sight of Archduke Gerard, and his two heirs, Katherine, Lady of Essex, and Christopher, Lord of Surrey, and Christopher’s wife and daughter alongside them. The household staff of the enormous palace stands behind them all, and as the door of the helicopter opens, he notices Lady Katherine giving him a rather… predatory grin. 

“Archduke Argent, you honor us with your hospitality.” He says, bowing his head as he has for the lords and ladies of Francia, Scotland, and Ireland before.

“The Crown honors England with its presence.” Gerard responds, bowing deeply alongside his household. After that, Derek and company are led inside as the cameras of the press flash from behind the gates of the palace.

**-Ω-**

“Your Grace, please, allow me.” Katherine Argent insists as she pulls out his chair at the household’s private dining table. “Fetch your emperor some refreshments,  _ now.”  _ She snarls at a servant, who immediately shuffles off to comply.

Derek looks at her. “There’s no need to by short with them, my Lady. I understand it’s a very busy day.” He says.

“Be that as it may, Your Grace,” Victoria, Christopher’s wife interjects, “It’s no excuse for not even having a glass of water ready for you. We have hosted every ruler this empire has ever known, even the Infant Emperor, we must be able to provide for you superbly.” 

“The reception has been without flaw, Lady Argent.” He diplomatically replies, and shakes his head. For the youngest of the Great Houses, the Argents have always carried themselves with the seriousness of the most ancient royal families. Even as a child, he thought they carried a chip on their collective shoulders.

Gerard enters the room, now joined by his own private guard, a large, bald man he introduces as Ennis, head of the Palace Guard. “We have quite the reception planned for you, Your Grace.” He says. 

“Oh?” He asks, and turns to thank the harried waitress who brought him his water. “The crowds outside the gate are just the beginning, are they?” 

“Yes, they are. All the nobility of the Duchy of Anglia will be here before nightfall, when we will sit for a dinner and a ball. To have an emperor born of our great island is a matter of much excitement.” The archduke replies. 

“His Grace is a proud  _ Scotsman.”  _ Erica says in a tone that suggests agreement, though no one misses the emphasis she places on the young ruler’s national origin.

“Indeed.” Christopher says. “I’m certain he shall be a credit to all Great Britain, and the empire as a whole.” The line seems to mollify everyone for the most part.

Katherine speaks up again. “From what I’ve seen, he already is quite the credit to us all.” And the entire room grows uncomfortable again, the double entendre obvious.

Awkwardly laughing, Allison Argent, another familiar face from Derek’s younger years, stands up. “I’m sure His Grace is quite tired. I’d be happy to escort you to your rooms, if you’d permit me?” 

Derek nods to Boyd, before standing and following after her. Once they’re several hallways clear, Allison turns and wraps him in a tight hug, which he returns. “Ugh, I’m so sorry about Aunt Kate, we told her to be on her best behavior.” 

He returns the hug easily. “She was  _ always  _ a creep.” He says. “Gods, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I hope your grandfather never dies, so I don’t have to deal with her on my council.” 

Allison mimes gagging. “I know. So, dish, are the boys in Paris still as gorgeous as ever?” 

“I wouldn’t know, they won’t let me near any of them.” He replies. “Thank you, by the way, for dropping the formal shit. I’m so damned sick of it, you wouldn’t even believe.” 

“I’ve known you since we were in diapers, you’re lucky I didn’t just start screeching and hugging you the second you landed.” She says, laughing. “Come on, I promise to protect you from the worst of my aunt and her paedo urges.” 

“I’m twenty-three, you know. That’s not exactly pedophilia.” 

“She’s forty-six, that’s still gross.” 

“Fair.”

**-Ω-**

The tour drags on. An endless circuit of soirées, balls, and parades. Thousands of selfies, millions turning out just to see the Emperor as he passes from province and province. Speeches memorializing the Senator and Assemblyman of that particular district who died in the bombing. Gods, so many speeches. Derek couldn’t wait to get back to Paris, get through the reception, and then just focus on rebuilding the government. It would be months before the Senate and Assembly were called into session, and months after that before the hodge-podge of former members and fresh faces called into service would be acclimated. Only then could he step aside and just be the rubber stamp for the Proconsul that the head of state has been since 1817 and the adoption of the Imperial Constitution.

The imperial jet is coming into Rimini International Airport out of a particularly exhaustive stay in Genoa. In the city along the Ligurian Sea, the nobles weren’t just sycophants trying to curry the crown’s favor, they were scheming sycophants willing to offer outright bribery  _ in front of one another  _ to get the most favorable deals in the 2020 budget. Before that, the nobles in Italia and Rome were worse. Some even resorted to threatening to appoint uncooperative Senators, which Derek was blessed to learn could be curbed by only bringing up mention of Marin Morrell. Her native constituency is Siena, and it seems that the Proconsul has been adept at inspiring fear in the insipid Italian nobility.

Thankfully, the trip to Piedmont was over, and now the court was headed to Tuscany, the first stop of which was none other than San Marino. Again, Derek’s mind drifts to the cavalier lordling that he met after the funeral. There’s a dossier on the small table in front of him, showing him photos and biographies of Lord Stilinski and his son. 

_ John Paolo Stilinski, born 18 May, 1972, age 47, son of Philipe Stilinski and Alicia Collodi. Awarded a commendation for distinguished service in the Imperial Army during the 1995 Kashmir War. Genim Daniel Stilinski, preferred name ‘Stiles’, born 7 November, 1998, age 21, son of John Stilinski and Claudia Gajos. Currently a communications major going into his senior year at the University of Bologna Rimini campus.  _

The dossier then proceeds to list off various charitable causes House Stilinski favors, as well as other useless tidbits of information that Derek has no interest in. Curiously, it gives no explanation for how a clearly Polish name such as Stilinski came to hold a city in Italy, one that was of great significance to the conquest during the Great Incursions. He makes a mental note to ask Stiles of about it when they have a moment. 

“Derek, we’re landing.” Isaac says, resting a hand on his shoulder. Only seconds after the words leave his lips, the tires of the plane squeal against the tarmac, and they are groundside once more. His Chief of Staff quirks his lips. “I know you’ve been looking forward to this stop.”

“I have no clue what you’re referring to.” He says innocently. “I am looking forward to seeing all of my magnificent empire, of course.” 

Erica snorts, and Boyd smirks while rolling his eyes, but Isaac just gives him some serious side-eye. Even the other members of the guard level various looks of disbelief and bemusement at him. 

The emperor holds up his hands in surrender. “Fine, yes, I was particularly looking forward to this stop.” 

“It is extraordinarily unbecoming of an emperor to lie, especially to his staff, Your Grace.” Erica says with a mocking reprimand in her voice.

**-Ω-**

There isn’t a crowd waiting for them this time, a fact which is of great relief to Derek, who has been anxious to get to the reception waiting for him. Looking westward, he can see Mount Titano, the mountain which compromises much of San Marino, and the three enormous towers atop of it. The largest, the one in the middle, must be Guaita Castello. Even from kilometers away, the sandstone walls and tile roof glint in the late afternoon sun. The car ride from Rimini to San Marino is a little less than an hour, and as they drive through San Marino properly, Derek is left wondering if it truly is a major city. 

“Isaac, what’s the city’s population?” He asks, as it seems as though they are driving through a countryside village.

“Just under 35,000.” His chief replies. “Why?”

“So… why is it considered a major imperial city?” He asks. “I’m not doubting there’s good reason, but why?” 

“History.” The pale man says. “San Marino was the city that protected the various north Italian republics from incursion by the kingdoms of Italia and Sicily. Of course, after the Italics finished off the Sicilians, it didn’t take long before the republics fell. Then there was the Great Incursions. While we pushed the Umayyads out of Iberia, we also invaded Italy. Rather than sieging out the Rock, as it was known, we snuck inside and took the city and fortresses by surprise, and used it as the main staging point for the Siege of Rome and the rest of the conquest.” 

Derek nods, smiling to himself as he can see the crowds waving joyously at the motorcade through his tinted windows when they reach the main bulk of the city. They drive up winding roads until finally, the car comes to a stop at the gates of Guaita Castello. A member of the guard from another car steps up to open his door for him, and Derek steps out, inhaling deeply from the mountain air, surprised by how crisp it is for the notoriously humid Italian summers. 

Walking through the gates and towards the castle’s impressive front doors, he catches his first sight of Lord Stilinski and his son in almost two months. Both men are dressed similarly, in white tunics and pants, with robin’s egg blue accents upon them, the colors of the city’s flag. The castle’s staff, all in their finest, flank them as well, and bow when they catch sight of the emperor.

“Lord Stilinski.” Derek bows. “You honor us with your hospitality.”

“The Crown honors San Marino with its presence.” The elder of the two men says before rising to clasp his hand. “It’s good to see you again, Your Grace.” 

“You as well, and your son.” He replies, shaking both of their hands. 

The inside of the Castello is much more designed towards comfort than elegance, as the foyer is a small space with a set of stairs leading to a hallway, and through the nearest doorway, Derek can see a cluster of plush leather couches and chairs around a large television, and the afternoon light drifts through large windows that overlook the city. 

Lord Stilinski clears his throat. “It’s not much, but it’s home.” He says, guiding them to sit in the living room. 

“It’s beautiful.” And it truly is, with its stucco walls and exposed ceiling beams, the Castello has a rustic, homey feel that reminds the emperor of the on-site quarters of the servants at Hale Castle. 

“We’re glad you like it, Your Grace.” Stiles says, and Derek shakes his head. 

“I’ve heard enough _ ‘Your Graces’  _ to last a lifetime, and frankly, you Italians are a very… persistent people. I’d like it if you both just called me Derek.” He says as he leans into the incredibly comfortable couch. 

“Then, by all means, call me John.” 

“And call me Stiles.” 

“Happily.” He replies.

Stiles grins. “So, have the nobles in Rome tried to eat you alive yet?” He asks. 

“You have  _ no  _ idea…” Derek begins, starting to regale them with his misadventures throughout Italy. 

**-Ω-**

After a dinner between just the five of them, Derek finds himself alone in the guest suite of the castello. With a beautiful, enclosed stone balcony facing eastward, he is able to overlook the whole of San Marino, as well as Rimini and the Adriatic Sea beyond it. It truly is a breathtaking view to behold. He sits himself down on one of the wicker chairs on the balcony, and just takes in the sight of the land below him at dusk, before a knock breaks from across the room. 

“Enter.” He says, not bothering to look back. 

The voice that breaks from behind him is unexpected, but not unwelcome. “I told you it was the nicest view in all of Italy. Even the clock tower of Venice can’t beat this, and wait till you see a sunrise. Just before dawn breaks, you can see the Croat Coast backlit by the sun from across the Adriatic.” Stiles says. “May I sit?” 

Derek gestures to the chair across from him. “By all means.” 

“Thanks.”

“So, Stiles,” Derek begins. “I’m sorry if I’m being rude, but are all Italian nobles as… pigheaded as they’ve been thus far?” 

The young lord chuckles. “Unfortunately, yes, we are. Don’t you know that homosexuality was invented in Italy, during the Kingdom Period?” 

There’s a clear setup for a joke, and Derek bites. “Oh?”

“Yeah. There was once an Italic lord so desperate to please his ruler that while the rest of the nobility were lined up to kiss the emperor’s ass, he went around to the front and started sucking the royal cock.” The delivery is deadpan, but his eyes sparkle with mischief before they both burst out laughing. 

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but it really seemed like you needed a good dirty joke.” He chortles. 

“What did I say about calling me that?” Derek asks, still chuckling. “And you’re right, I definitely did.” 

Stiles settles in, facing his ruler. “So, since you asked an insulting question, can I ask you one?”

“Fair is fair.” He replies. 

“If you’re from Scotland, why do you sound like a mainlander? Are you affecting your natural accent or something?” He asks, genuinely curious. 

“No, not at all.” Derek says. “Everyone assumes we all sound the same, and, maybe, once upon a time, we did, but that changed with the Great Incursions. Scotland has always risen up first to defend the empire, and considering how close we came to falling in 1489, we also tended to lose the most to battle. Alba especially, we lost many. Then there was a plague and famine in the countryside, and  _ then,  _ at the same time, a massive tsunami formed out of the North Sea and almost completely destroyed the east coast.” 

“Shit.” Stiles whistles. “How’d your people survive that?”

“We didn’t, really. Historians estimate as much as seventy percent of the population of Alba was lost between the war, the plague, the famine, and the tsunami, all in almost two years. So, while the Umayyads were laying siege to Paris itself, we welcomed refugees from the mainland by the hundreds of thousands. Our population went from thirty percent of what it was in 1488 to twice that by 1492. The mainlanders outnumbered the Scots, and so, we lost the accent.” He explains. 

“So you just…  _ let them  _ overrun you?” Stiles asks, now confused. “I get that it’s all one empire and everything, but you let people from a thousand kilometers away just settle the land your ancestors had for millennia?” 

Derek nods. “We did. Scotland has always  _ chosen  _ the Empire, and we’ve done nothing but grow from it. When the kingdoms were shredding themselves in civil war during over competing claims to the throne, every one of the lords and ladies of Scotland bent the knee to Alexander III. While the rest of the empire came into the fold through blood and steel, we came of our own will.” 

“You’re something else, Derek Hale.” He says. 

“A good something else, I hope?”

“Most definitely.”

**-Ω-**

The next morning, Derek walks alongside the Stilinskis through the streets of the city, wading through the crowds to take photos and sample dozens of vendors’ offerings. In celebration of the emperor’s arrival, San Marino has transformed into a festival of imperial pride, with the blue and white triskele flag of the nation and the rising phoenix banner of House Hale hanging from seemingly every street lamp, balcony, and flagpole available. 

With Boyd and several members of the guard to maintain a buffer, the three men walk the streets and wave at people who are hanging off of balconies and out of windows just to glimpse the emperor as he passes through their town. They work their way towards the Palazzo Pubblico, the city government building, where a stage has been prepared for Derek to deliver an address for the citizens. Concrete Jersey barriers hold back the throngs of people from the stage, and Derek happily goes directly through the crowd, with the members of the guard pushing them back in a bubble as he and the Stilinskis wave and shake hands with the people. 

There’s a sound of shattering rock, followed by a thud, and Derek whirls around to see that one of the guardsmen has fallen, and before he can react, the sound again echoes, and this time, Boyd screams in pain as he feels the hot rush of blood spraying him over his left side.

_ “Shooter!”  _ Another guard screams before Derek watches as the crowd begins to scream and run, and that very same guard’s head bursts open, spraying the young emperor with gore. 

Stiles and John both take his arms and attempt to rush him towards the barricades, but Derek resists, sprinting back to where a still screaming Boyd clutches at his copiously bleeding shoulder. Without even thinking, the emperor loops his arm around his guard’s good shoulder, and drags him along. 

“Leave me!” Boyd yells as gunshots continue to ring out, but Derek ignores him, even when he feels the rush of air of a bullet sailing within inches of his head before embedding itself in the barrier only feet ahead of them.

“Take him!” Derek bellows to where John and Stiles have taken shelter behind one of the Jersey walls, and they do as instructed, coming to grab at him as more shots pepper holes around them, and now the remaining Imperial Guard has drawn their pistols, firing at the roofs across the plaza.

Finally,  _ finally,  _ they get over the barricades and brace themselves against them, all of them flinching with each impact, but the concrete holds by the grace of the gods. After a few moments’ silence, Derek peaks his head up, and sees the guard who was first shot, and older man named Micah, trying to lift himself off of the ground, only for yet another gunshot to go off, this one voiding the contents of Micah’s skull over the ancient Sammarinese cobblestone.

“Your Grace?!” One of the guards screams from where he’s hiding around the corner of a building, peaking out only to return fire at the snipers. “Do we have eyes on the emperor?!” She continues.

Derek takes a deep breath and bellows at the top of his lungs. “I’m fine!” Another shot sails directly over his head and leaves a hole in the stucco of the city government building. He looks over, and sees cold terror painted on Stiles’ face, and agony on Boyd’s. 

“How bad is it?” He asks. “Derek, don’t lie to me.” 

“It looks bad.” The emperor says. “We have to wait for help.”

The captain nods. “I can’t shoot. Listen to me, we don’t know what’ll happen. I want you to take my gun.”

“I have never fired a weapon in my life.” Derek argues.

“It’s easy. Point at bad guy, pull trigger. These models are specially designed, they have almost no kickback.” Boyd presses the pistol into his hands. “Derek, listen to me. They might try to take you alive. If they do…” 

He shakes his head. “I won’t let them. I’ll kill myself first.” 

“Good.” 

Another shot rings out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, a cliffhanger, I know, I'm a bastard. I had a lot of fun bringing up the historical lore, and that dirty joke is an original, thank you very much. Note, the use of 'paedo' and 'pedophilia' was to convey Allison's accent, not a spelling error. As for why I wrote away the Scottish accent despite Derek being a Scotsman... well, picture Tyler Hoechlin except he sounds like Simon Pegg's Scotty in the Abramsverse Star Trek movies. It doesn't work for me either, plus I get to extol the virtues of my ancestors while making the English look like bastards, so it's a win-win. Drop a review, and maybe I won't kill Boyd.


	7. Homecoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longest chapter yet!

It ended with the screams of the snipers, three of them, as the bullets from the Imperial Guard found their marks after a horrid ten minutes of cowering behind concrete barriers with Boyd slowly bleeding out all over him. And, of course, it was all broadcast on international television, and was now the number one trend on Twitter _ and _Facebook. #SanMarinoShooting is officially the most tweeted event-related hashtag of all time by sunset, and Derek is livid.

He’s livid because the man he’s proud to consider a friend and devoted public servant nearly bled to death from a sniper’s bullet, and will be hospitalized in Italy for at least two weeks. Boyd is hundreds of miles from home, though the Crown has already flown in his family, and put them up in a hotel in Rimini. 

Derek is livid because four members of the Imperial Guard, the most elite protection unit in the world, are dead. Because Stiles and John and hundreds of innocent people were endangered. Most of all, though, he is livid because of the patch on the snipers’ paramilitary fatigues. 

The horizontal tricolor is blue, white, and red, and centered over it is a crimson star rimmed by gold. The flag of the Yugoslavian Liberation Front. A periodic thorn in the Empire's side, the YLF makes a big show of demanding an independence referendum for the kingdom every few years, which is never granted, as consistent polling shows less than thirty percent of Yugoslavs like the idea of independence. 

If the YLF were responsible for this, then the odds were goddamn high they bombed the reception, as well. As he sits inside the castello back in San Marino, Derek looks over the last draft of the document he’s written up on a secure laptop and printed off as he prepares to fax it back to Paris. It reads,

_ Imperial Edict DRK1-06 _

_ I, Derek Marcus Raphael Alexander Hale, Emperor of Carolingia, do hereby declare the group known as the Yugoslavian Liberation Front to be a terrorist organization, as is my authority as Supreme Commander of the Armed Forces and Protector of the Realms, as delegated to me by the Constitution of the Empire, Article I, Section 9, Clause 31. This edict is effective 13 August, 2019. _

He signs it with his initials, ‘DMRAH’, and then goes to the fax machine in the castle’s office, enters the number for the fax in Versailles. 

There’s been some discussion about cancelling the remained of the tour, but he’ll hear no more of it. They haven’t even gotten halfway through Italy, and there are still Austria and Hungary left in Bohemia, as well as another seven stops in Yugoslavia, where Derek feels his presence is most needed. He will not be driven out of lands that are his responsibility by the likes of terrorists. 

From behind him, there is a gentle knock against the open door frame. “Hey.” Stiles’ crisp voices speaks softly. “I made dinner. Dad, Isaac, and Erica already ate, we didn’t want to disturb you.” 

“Thanks.” Derek replies. “Let me just put this in a folder so it can be filed when we get back to Versailles.” 

The two of them take dinner on Derek’s veranda. The east-facing balcony is cool and dim without the light of the sun, and a bare hint of breeze keeps the air from becoming stagnant. Stiles has cooked up some chicken dish on a bed of pasta, which Derek compliments vigorously as they eat in an otherwise heavy, if comfortable silence. As they set down their utensils, Stiles produces a fine bottle of wine to the emperor’s delight.

“It’s a local red, a 1955 Risivera. We actually own the city’s winery, but Dad just lets the managers run it as they will.” He explains. “There’s some bottles in the castle wine cellar that go back to the Silver Succession. Apparently my ancestors named that particular style for Alexander.” 

Derek chuckles appreciatively. “Still drinkable?”

“I’d guess so. Didn’t they pop a bottle of champagne from 1728 and drink it?” 

“Didn’t hear about that.” He replies. “I leave tomorrow morning.” He says.

“I know you do.” Stiles says, now quiet. “It’s been wonderful having you here.” 

The emperor stands and marches over to lean against the stone railing, looking out over the darkening Italian landscape. He gestures for the young noble to join him, which he does. “Assassination attempts notwithstanding, I’ve enjoyed this place more than any other I’ve seen, even going home to Aberdeen. I’ve felt more like myself in the last two days than in the last two months.”

“They say this place is special, that San Marino has an effect on everyone who comes here.” 

Derek shakes his head. “This place is special, but it’s the _ people _ that have made it special. It’s the warmth of the city residents, the hospitality of your father… it’s _ you, _Stiles. You make this place special for me.” 

“Derek…” He trails, now wide-eyed.

Before either of them know what’s happening, their lips are pressed together in a chaste kiss. It lasts just a moment, but for them both, it feels like a joyous lifetime. 

“I can’t promise you anything. There are a lot of politics at play here, and someone wants me dead.” Derek says, laying a hand over Stiles’ hammering heart. “But… I want you to save me a dance at the reception when we return to Paris, and I’d like you to join me at court.” 

Stiles nods just once. “I’ll be there.” He promises solemnly, before pressing his lips to Derek’s once more.

**-Ω-**

With Boyd still hospitalized, his second-in-command, a woman named Kali Amelios, is flown in from where she has been directing security back at Versailles to take over as head of Derek’s security detail. Frankly, the emperor and his entourage all find her rather intense, but none of them doubt that she takes her job seriously. 

“Your Grace.” Kali bows deeply before him when she enters his rooms. They are in Sarajevo, the capital of Yugoslavia, joining Archduke Adin Omerovic in his family’s home, a glittering alabaster keep that stands atop a hill overlooking Old Sarajevo. The White Bastion was the seat of the Kings of Bosnia before Andrej II launched a campaign of conquest to establish his kingdom, which would stand for nearly a millennia until it was conquered by the Italians.

He stands, looking at his acting head of security. “How can I help you, Kali?”

“Archduke Omerovic wishes to speak with you.” She says. 

“Send him in and give us some privacy, please.” Derek instructs, which she wordlessly does with another bow. “So, what did you want to talk about, my lord?” He asks of the Archduke across from him. 

Adin Omerovic, a middle-aged fellow, slightly on the heavy side, survived that awful night, but has often been quiet at meetings of the Imperial Council. “Since the attempt on your life at San Marino, I’ve worked with the kingdom’s government and police services intimately. As I understand it, the Crown Police Service recovered pieces of the explosives used at the reception?” 

“That is correct.” He replies. 

“Well, the Vojvodini Marshalls conducted a raid on a known meeting place of the Yugoslavian Liberation Front… and they found explosives matching those used at the bombing.” He softly says. Derek nods, processing the information slowly before Omerovic places a file with a map showing a location in rural east Serbia, near the Danube river border with Byzantium. “These are the headquarters of the YLF in Duboka. Intelligence indicates that leadership has gathered there to plan their next moves, all while denying responsibility for the bombing.” 

“I see.” He replies. “Can you take me to a secure communications facility?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

**-Ω-**

The secure facility turns out to be the capitol building of the kingdom, and Derek is whisked into video conference with the rest of the Imperial Council, as well as the general staff. 

_ ‘Your Grace, I take it the Archduke has briefed you on what we discovered in Vojvodina?’ _General Parish, the new Chair of the General Staff asks. 

“He did.” Derek nods. “What are our options?”

Proconsul Morrell speaks up. _ ‘Continuity of government protocols are still in place, and as Supreme Commander, you already have wide discretion for military action, which is made only wider by the COG. You have whatever options you believe are appropriate.’ _She explains. 

“Do you recommend we raid the compound for prisoners? They’ll likely have valuable information about the attacks.” He queries. 

_ ‘I would advise against that, they are likely heavily armed. The militant arm of the YLF has ties to similar movements in Brazil and Burkinabe separatists in Africa. We have a short window of time to act, too short for any meaningful reconnaissance and planning to happen.’ _Another general adds.

The emperor sighs. “A drone strike?” He suggests. “Can I authorize a strike on our own soil?” 

General Parish speaks again. _ ‘Not without consent from the Senate, which technically survives through the Proconsul.’ _

“Marin?” Derek asks. 

_ ‘A drone strike is an excellent idea. There are UCAV assets meant for deployment over the Siberian Sea at Camp Bondsteel, how fast can we get them there?’ _

_ ‘Thirty minutes from whenever the order is given, ma’am.’ _

“Can someone grab Isaac for me, I’d like to confer with him.” He requests. “In the meantime, spin up the drones. If we call it off, we call it off.” 

_ ‘Yes, Your Grace.’ _

A few moments later, Isaac is brought into the secure room and he and Derek sit down, looking over the data on a tablet. 

“It looks good, Der.” The Chief of Staff says. “This is solid intelligence, we’ve kept tabs on the YLF for years. Minimum chance of civilian casualties, and you have the approval to do something like this.” 

Derek sighs. “I know, I know… but still.”

“Still what?” 

“I have a bad feeling.” He says. “I can’t explain it past that. Something doesn’t feel right.” 

Isaac sets the tablet down, and looks Derek in the eye. “Like it’s too easy.” 

“Exactly! Those snipers _ had _ to know trying to take me out in San Marino was a suicide mission. Even if they did it, they were on a fucking mountain, there’s no way they would’ve gotten off of it without getting caught. So _ why on Earth _did they wear the flag of the YLF?”

“They’re desperate. They thought you were weak, and you’re strong. Maybe killing you would be a call to arms for their countrymen, or at least destabilize the empire enough that Yugoslavia could slip out on their own.” He suggests. “We have the evidence, and the motive. Those bombs used at the reception were found in one of their safehouses.” 

“Where did they come from, anyway?” Derek asks. “The bombs, I mean.”

“They were modified naval mines leftover from the Kashmir War with the Mauryan Empire.” Isaac answers. “They mined the Strait of Pakistan so we mined the Gulfs of Kutch and Khambhat. It was one of the worst naval wars in history.” 

“Were the mines ours or the Mauryans’?” 

“I don’t… I don’t know, actually.” He replies. “I’d guess ours, since we did have surplus left from the war. How the YLF would have ties to the Mauryans is beyond me.”

Derek shakes his head. “It’s not out of the question. Think about it, they’ve never beaten us in a war. Don’t forget, they’ve hated us especially since the Tibetan War of 1813. Then-Prince Alexander marches an army of 200,000 down from the Himalayas and occupies their capital, and forces their emperor to bend the knee to the monarchs of six states. That leaves a wound that never heals. We allied with a country they hated so much they wouldn’t speak its name!” 

“I don’t know, Derek.” He says. “That was two hundred years ago. Why wouldn’t they attack us before then?” 

“Geography. There’s no friendly ports that would help them reach us, but now? Now, they destabilize us from within.” 

“And risk another war? The Bengali and Nepalese wouldn’t stay neutral in a conflict like that, especially one where the Hindis were the clear aggressor.” Isaac objects. “It just feels a little too… conspiracy theory for me.” 

“Maybe you’re right.” Derek sighs. “Maybe I’m seeing ghosts.”

Isaac lays a hand on his shoulder. “We should investigate any connections to the Mauryan Empire. In the meantime, all evidence points to the YLF as the bombers. You declared them a terror group over a week ago, if they were innocent, they’d have surrendered. I say go through with the strike.” 

“Alright, we’ll do it.” 

**-Ω-**

The strike goes off without a hitch. Within fifteen minutes, teams are on the ground to collect evidence and search for any potential survivors. Found among the wreckage is another modified mine, as well as a single survivor who was in an outbuilding away from the rest, and was knocked out but otherwise unharmed when hellfire rained from the sky. 

Erica is practically glowing by the time they have Derek behind a podium and in front of a row of Carolingian flags on a balcony of the White Bastion. With the sun just about to set, they’re set for a major primetime address that he’s been informed is being broadcast _ internationally, _taking up airtime as far as Japan and the US. 

“Well, this will be even bigger than your first national address.” She says as she adjusts the teleprompter just above the camera. “Isaac and I personally crafted this speech, so do it justice.” She instructs. 

“Yes, ma’am.” Derek laughs. “How’s the hair?” 

“Fine, and we’re shielded from the wind, so just don’t touch it.” Erica nods. “Oh! Crown, duh!” She smacks a hand against her head. “You should definitely wear your crown for this.” 

He nods in agreement before bending his head so that she can place the heavy platinum on his head. With that, she steps back to where Isaac watches from just behind the camera. “Everybody ready?” Erica asks. “Five, four, three…” She goes silent, counting off on her fingers, and then Derek is on air.

“My fellow Carolingians, this evening, I was informed of extraordinary intelligence. As you know, nearly two weeks ago, three members of the terror group known as the Yugoslavian Liberation Front made an attempt on my life that killed three members of the Imperial Guard and wounded two more.” 

He pauses, takes a deep breath, and continues. “Today, the brave men and women of the Vojvodini Marshalls conducted a raid on a safehouse of the YLF and found modified naval mines that were of the same type utilized in the attack that decapitated our government and murdered the Imperial Family. I can proudly say that the materials discovered in this raid have led us to conduct a strike against the leadership of the YLF, and that the terrorists who sought to destroy our empire have been brought to justice…”

**-Ω-**

Derek comes home to a hero’s welcome. He still had all of Yugoslavia to tour through, and everywhere, he was met with enormous crowds and constant press coverage. His speech prompted the Delian League to issue a statement congratulating him _ personally, _as well as the Carolingian military and intelligence services for their work. But, all the crowds in Yugoslavia could not prepare the emperor for what awaits him on his return from Pristina to Paris. 

“Over a _ million _people are in the streets, Derek. That’s half the fucking city!” Erica exclaims. “We didn’t even get that many people at your coronation. The last time was… what, when Alexander III died? You’ve got the biggest crowd since 1881!” 

_ “Holy shit.” _He whispers to himself as he takes in the sight of the Parisian streets from where they are flooded with a sea of humanity. In the distance, four massive flags are draped over the sides of the Eiffel Tower. Hundreds of thousands of smaller flags are held in the hands of the crowds, and their constant waving causes the people to appear as a single organism that lazily undulates as it spreads across the streets. 

Isaac nods. “Holy shit, indeed.” 

It’s fucking beautiful. Even Kali isn’t unaffected by it, if the tear at the corner of her eye says anything. 

“Are you alright, Kali?” Derek asks.

His guard starts wiping at her eye aggressively. “Of course, Your Grace. It’s just good to see that the people are so proud to see those monsters brought to justice.” She says, clearly choked up.

“Hey.” He replies, walking across the jet to lay a hand on her shoulder, “We all lost people. You lost a lot of damn good friends. Patriots, every one of them. You honor their memory, don’t doubt that for a second.” 

She nods. “Thank you, Your Grace.” The thanks comes out softly. 

**-Ω-**

As amazing as a million people turned out in the streets is to behold, it is a royal, or rather, imperial pain to navigate. It takes nearly two hours for the motorcade to make it from JHI to the palace, where none other than Boyd himself, finally cleared for duty, waits on the steps of Versailles. 

“Your Grace.” He bows, all while smirking. 

“Fuck off.” Derek says, chuckling, before gathering the Captain of the Imperial Guard in a tight hug. 

Boyd turns to Kali, and nods. “You’ve done an excellent job, Amelios.”

“Thank you, sir. It’s been my honor.” She replies.

“I know you’ve been informally filling the role, but, if the emperor consents, I’d like to officially name you as Commander of the Guard and you my second.” He says, and Derek nods.

“If you weren’t going to ask, I would’ve done it myself.” The monarch affirms, clapping the new Commander on the shoulder. “I’ll have the paperwork drawn up tomorrow.” 

She bows deeply before excusing herself to where the rest of her team is exiting the motorcade. Joined by Isaac and Erica, the four of them march into the marble halls of the palace as they catch up. 

“I’ve been cleared for a couple of days, so I’ve been coordinating with Archduchess Martin on the reception. The hall is structurally stable, and the last decorations are going into place as we speak. Everyone who is going to be working the event except for myself, Kali, and the majordomo is already on-site, and they’ve all been subject to serious searches. We’ve had the whole Louvre on lockdown for the last three days, and have bomb dogs searching every hour. We also have eyes on every rooftop within sniper’s range.” Boyd reports. 

“And the guests?” Erica asks. “What’s security protocol for the guests?”

“They’ll be going through the canines, metal detectors, and will be thoroughly searched. They have to park off-site, and will be escorted under police guard to the event. We have three checkpoints for the three different invitations they all got, and every invite has an RFID to track its location.” He says. 

Derek nods. “Excellent, and the VIPs?” 

“The Council and their families, as well as the Imperial Family, are all at the palace, and the Stilinskis are staying at a hotel just two blocks from the Louvre.” Isaac interjects. “Megan at wardrobe has your outfit for tonight ready, I texted her to make sure it’s in your chambers. Oh, and Lydia has asked me to let you know that your little idea is ready.” 

“Okay, can I get lunch and some time to relax?” Derek asks. “It’s only the biggest night of my reign so far.” 

“Your usual?” He asks, to which the emperor nods. “I’ll let the kitchens know.” 

Arriving to his chambers, Derek throws himself onto the couch and flicks on the television, channel scrolling until he finds a movie that’s sufficiently mind-numbing to watch while he waits for lunch, and changes into a pair of sweatpants and an old tee-shirt. After about fifteen minutes, someone from palace catering enters the room with a gentle knock and a quick bow before placing a tray on his coffee table. 

He takes his time savoring the roast beef sandwich and potato chips as he watches the movie, before wiping his hands off and looking over that wardrobe has gotten ready for him where it hangs in a garment bag in his boudoir. For once, it’s surprisingly simple, with a black jacket and pants, a dark blue shirt, and a stark white tie, complete with a flag pin on the left lapel. 

Having finished his meal and the movie, Derek heads into the bathroom with its frankly stupidly large shower that has the _ entire _ceiling capable of acting as a rainfall showerhead. He’s lived serious comfort for his whole life, but the appointments at Versailles make those at Castle Collins look shoddy in comparison. 

The shower is long, hot, and exactly what Derek needs. Afterwards, he gets back into the sweats and tee-shirt, just in time for Archduke Gerard to knock at his door. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Your Grace.” He says. “I was hoping we could discuss something.” 

“My door is always open, Gerard.” The emperor responds, gesturing for him to sit. 

“Thank you. I didn’t want to make this a council-meeting issue but… I’d like to discuss your plans for producing an heir. Especially given the situation and lack of possible successors. Naming your elder sister Crown Princess is a temporary solution.” He says, an air of diplomacy clear in his accented voice. “Now, I understand that the traditional means of producing an heir is out of the question, however, genetic sciences are more than capable of creating a child of two men, as we planned for you and your late husband.”

“I’ve been emperor for less than four months. Caroline didn’t produce Diego until two years into her reign.” Derek argues. 

Gerard nods. “Her Grace also had three siblings, and someone wasn’t trying to kill her. Now, as you presently do not have a consort, we could consider other, more… traditional means.”

The emperor raises an eyebrow in disbelief. “Are those laws even on the books anymore?” 

“They are. A morganatic child _ is _the best way to quickly produce an heir to throne.” 

“With who?” Derek asks.

“There are several options. Archduchess Martin, for one, or my daughter Katherine. Perhaps even Miss Reyes.” He suggests. “I am simply saying that for you to quickly produce an heir, you either must quickly marry, or turn to a morganatic option. You wouldn’t have any legal obligation to the mother, though surrogate parents of both sexes traditionally have been given significant compensation by the Crown for their services.”

Derek sighs. “Gerard, I don’t know…”

The archduke lays a hand on his shoulder. “Derek,” He says emphatically, calling him by his name for the first time, “You must secure your reign, and your empire. Think about it.” 

**-Ω-**

Evening quickly descends on Versailles, and at dusk, Derek is whisked into hair and makeup to prepare him for the evening before he is changed into the suit. When his hair stylist places the crown upon his head, he has to admit, he loves the way he looks. The heavy platinum prevents him from wearing his hair up as he would prefer, but even so, he makes an impressive sight. Perhaps he is starting to finally feel like the emperor, rather than just some pretender. After letting his prep team fawn over him, Derek looks over the prepared remarks for his speech at the reception, and heads out to where Boyd and Kali wait for him in the hallway. 

“Erica and Isaac are at the reception, as are the councilors and their families. Everyone is waiting on you.” Boyd confirms. 

“Let’s not keep them waiting much longer then.” He replies, striding down the long hallway towards the motorcade. 

With a large number of people still lining the route from the palace to the hall, it takes nearly forty-five minutes for the cars to reach Alexander’s Hall, but when they do, Derek is awestruck by the sight of it. Great curtains of white gossamer curl in the warm breeze of the summer’s evening, flying through the holes where the windows once were. 

The entire front of the building is lit up, and the cleanup teams have done a marvelous job of pressure washing the ash and scorch marks off of the stone. Light filters out of the top of the structure, as the entire roof collapsed in the bombing, and the sound of calm music drifts through the evening air, as well as chatter and laughter. Walking up the steps, Derek notes that there are cracks and missing chunks from the staircase, but it’s held. 

There’s a great pang in his chest as he thinks of the last time he was here, but the emperor takes a deep breath and swallows the pain. This was his idea, and he will see it through. He smiles and waves to the press as they snap endless photographs, and then he has finally made it into the hall proper.

“I made it, Diego. Late, but I made it.” He murmurs to himself, before nodding to the majordomo. 

“Presenting His Grace, Derek Marcus Raphael Alexander Hale, Emperor of Carolingia, King of Francia, Scotland, Ireland, England, Benelux, Germany, Iberia, Italy, Bohemia, and Yugoslavia, Consul of the Senate, By the Grace of the Gods Supreme Commander of the Armed Forces and Protector of the Realms, King of Scots, Rí na Gaeilge, Prince of Wales, Grand Duke of Luxembourg, Kaiser of Germania, Imperator Italica, Regent Yugoslavia, and Consort Emeritus!” She bellows, and Derek steps up to the railing overlooking the main floor.

As the crowd stands and bows before bursting into raucous applause, he looks through the hall. Most of the granite columns that held up the roof are surprisingly still standing, though the tops have been snapped off, and from them hang alternating banners, half a vertical orientation of the national flag, half the standard of House Hale. Per his suggestion, fairy lights are draped over the dance floor in a weaving pattern connecting to the columns. Overhead, a nearly full moon and a handful of stars shine directly into the hall through the open ceiling, and it’s that sight that has Derek resolving to have a massive glass roof installed when repairs can begin in earnest. 

With the applause quieting down, Derek waves to the people and accepts the microphone from the majordomo. “Thank you, and welcome to the reception for the seventh coronal tour.” He begins.

“When I first suggested we use the hall in spite of the horrors this hallowed ground has endured, there were those that questioned it. The media called it disrespectful and said it was unbecoming of the court to dance amongst ruins. How wrong we have proven them. We are here this evening out of respect for those we lost, and to honor the traditions of our great empire.”

“Seeing this hall once more made into a place of beauty, if solemn beauty, is what we all needed. After tonight, teams will begin the progress of rebuilding this place, and when it is complete, I invite all of you to join me for a proper celebration. In the meantime, be sure to visit the memorial wall for the fallen and light a candle for their souls, and enjoy this evening. I will now ask that you join me for a moment of silence to honor those we lost.” 

Once the moment has passed, Derek walks down the colonnade that surrounds the main floor of the hall and down the steps to where his idea awaits him. During a tour of the wreckage, he had taken notice that one of the walls had fallen in such a way that the rubble formed the bare outline of a seat, one of the fragments of wall with a large triskelion on its face. 

Just as there has never been a single traditional crown for the empire, there has never been a traditional throne either, and Derek has changed that. From the rubble that formed the hint of a chair has been crafted a great stone seat, with the back piece made from the slab with the triple spiral on it. Sanded and polished, the throne is large and made of grey granite, its arms and seat cut made wholly of rectangles. The one exception is the top of the back, which is broken, as a reminder of the horror that made the throne possible. 

Derek lowers himself into the seat and surveys the room as a line forms for people to come and talk to him. Among the crowd are nobles, celebrities, prospective Senators and Assemblymembers, as well as members of the press. After a half hour of speaking with his subjects, he is freed as the mobile buffet stations are wheeled into the room and dinner is called. Heading across the floor to where everyone is sitting, Derek finds himself at a circular table with his family, along with Proconsul Morrell, Isaac, Lydia, Archduchess Mellissa of Iberia, and her son Scott.

“Your Grace, you look wonderful this evening.” Marin says, pulling him in for a hug. “You did good with that speech back in Yugoslavia, I never got to tell you.”

“Thanks, Marin.” He replies. “Mom, how are things back home?” He asks. 

Talia laughs. “Busier than ever. It seems everyone thinks that because we’re your parents, we’re the ones to talk to about getting anything done.” 

“Well, you _ are _the Queen Mother and King Father, Your Graces.” Isaac says.

Evan looks at his wife in blank shock. “He’s right. How did we not realize that’s who we are?” He asks, practically face-palming.

“You’d be forgiven for not noticing given how awful everything has been.” Melissa says, patting Talia on the shoulder. “I don’t suppose I should also mention that you and your daughters are all princesses under the succession laws. And Peter, you’re a Prince.” She says, pointing to Derek’s uncle, whose eyes widen like dinner plates.

“Under what law?” Derek asks, now very confused.

Lydia intercepts. “Well, had the letter of the law been followed, Robert Collins would’ve become emperor after Leo III died, and after him would’ve been your grandfather, and now, your mother would be on the throne and Laura would be Crown Princess, but given the exclusion, as someone within the line of succession, Talia, Laura, Cora, and Peter are entitled to be called Prince or Princess. In fact, you could legitimize your mother, father, sisters, and uncle as Hales. You already have with Laura, since she’s Crown Princess, in fact.”

The emperor blinks. “I guess I can. Do you guys… do you want that?” 

“That’s your call, kiddo.” Evan says. “If you think that’s right, you can do that.”

“Were you to do that,” Melissa adds. “You could name the House Hale of Alba as the main cadet branch of the throne, ahead of the Hales of Marseilles.” 

Derek nods. “I think I will, if you’re all okay with that?” He asks his whole family.

“Makes no difference to me, little brother.” Laura says. “I’m already a Hale.” 

“I’ll talk to the Office for the Management of Noble Titles about this.” Isaac says.

Erica cuts in. “I’ll draft a statement, and Archduchess Martin, if you could see about renaming Castle Collins to Castle Hale.” 

The rest of the meal goes with much more inane talk, and Derek finds himself enjoying the reception immensely. People drift by to offer their congratulations, and he politely accepts them. As the meal is winding down, a live band begins playing a gentle tune on their various string instruments, one meant to draw the crowd out onto the dancefloor. He knows the tradition that the monarch is the first to grab a partner to dance and the rest will follow in, and so, with the eyes of the room and the press upon him, Derek walks to wear he notices Stiles, looking quite dashing in an all white tuxedo, leans against a column and talks to another Italian noble. 

“Hate to cut in, my lady, but could I steal him for a dance?” He asks her.

She bows at once, smiling broadly at the both of them. “Of course, Your Grace.” 

“Took you long enough to find me.” Stiles murmurs as they walk, hand in hand, to the floor. “That was quite an entrance.” He adds.

“Thank you.” Derek replies as they settle in the center of the dance floor. The band picks up, and for a few seconds, they waltz alone before the rest of the attendees join in. “What do you think of the setup? I’m thinking of having a glass ceiling when this place gets rebuilt.”

“Definitely do it. This is the nicest party I’ve been to in forever.” Stiles says.

The emperor chuckles. “I hope you realize how much trouble we’re in.”

“Oh, I know.” He groans. “Half the empire will want me dead by dawn. They’ll demand the head of the nobody little lordling whose captivated their gorgeous emperor.” 

Derek does not reply, instead, he only pulls Stiles closer, perhaps _ too _close for the company they’re in, but he doesn’t give a damn. He’s the fucking emperor, he’ll do as he pleases. To Hell with propriety, he wants to be close to this captivating creature. “If it wouldn’t cause a scandal, I’d kiss you right now, on international television.” 

“Don’t tempt me, Der.” Stiles shoots back. “But do save me a kiss for when the cameras aren’t rolling.”

“You know it.” 

**-Ω-**

Meanwhile, outside, on the mezzanine, a beautiful woman paces back and forth as the phone in her hand rings. “C’mon, pick the bloody phone up.” She snarls. 

_ ‘Boss, what can I do for you?’ _A voice carries across the waves and out of the tinny-sounding speaker.

“We have a problem, Goran. The kind that could fuck everything up.” She says.

_ ‘The boy he’s dancing with, I assume.’ _

She makes an affirmative snarl. “That’s the one. Who _ is _he?” 

_ ‘No clue. He’ll be dealt with, though.’ _

“Careful, Goran, you can’t blame the YLF for this one.” 

_ ‘I have more than just the YLF.’ _ He says. _ ‘Don’t worry. The boy will be taken care of, in one way or another.’ _

“Good.” With that, she snaps the flip phone shut, and marches back into the hall, just in time to see Derek and the insipid little twerp break apart. “You, bring me a drink. Something strong.” She barks at a servant.

“Yes, Lady Argent.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, confession, I was never going to kill Boyd. I just needed a hostage to take and beg for reviews. Anyway, our bad guy has been revealed, and absolutely nobody is shocked. Where do the rest of the Argents fall? We shall see. Next chapter is gooey romantic shit and some serious bro time, along with a major development on the bombing front. Reviews keep me going! Also no clue what the denonym for Vojvodina is, but Google Docs corrected 'Vojvodinian' to 'Vojvodini', so I'm rolling with it. If, by some chance, there's a reader in Vojvodina, feel free to correct me on what to refer to your people as.


	8. Interlude I - The Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I decided to include a handful of interludes. They'll be dreams, flashes back to the history of the empire, or just scenes that don't really fit anywhere but show you the lives of our characters when they aren't consumed with palace intrigue. Lemme know what you really think.

“Mad.” The servant says to her companion. “He’s mad as a hatter.”

The other scoffs, pity in his voice. “You’d be too, if you’d lost all he had.”

“We best be careful, or we’ll lose our heads, we hang around him too long.” She replies.

Derek watches all of this with the omniscience of the dead, or perhaps the dreaming. Against his own volition, he drifts into the throne room at Versailles, and there, he catches sight of himself.

The cold, sallow-faced man sitting on the throne is a far stretch from the reflection he sees in the mirror. His aquamarine eyes are faded to a dispassionate grey, and beneath them are bags so vivid they ought to be bruises. His hair is longer, with bangs swept apart to frame his forehead, and he now sports a full beard. He is clothed in all in black, from the gloves that adorn his hands to the glinting leather shoes. There’s a studded pattern on the leather tunic, but it is the only relief in the unyielding outfit.

To his right stands Isaac, equally cold-looking. His hair is cropped so close that it has no curls in it any longer, and he is dressed in an all black suit. Glinting on his lapel is a triskelion brooch. To his left is Kali, wearing some form of sleek body armor with a large triple spiral embossed on the chest. And before the throne is none other than Marin Morrell.

“… the Senate has concerns. Your decision to declare the assassins guilty without trial is raising international condemnation. Members of the League are threatening to vote yes on a resolution to condemn our actions before the UN!” She argues.

This older, colder Derek rolls his eyes. “The Senate voted to grant me emergency powers, and I am executing them.” 

“Be that as it may, the evidence against them is overwhelming. A trial wouldn’t take more than a month, and then you’re free to do with them whatever you will.” The Proconsul insists.

“A month is too long.” He says. “The traitors will pay in blood for what they have done.”

Marin pinches the bridge of her nose, pacing in front of the seated monarch. “This isn’t the way to do it. Derek-”

“You will address me as ‘Your Grace’, Madam Proconsul.” Derek seethes. “Those days are gone.”

_ “Your Grace,”  _ She corrects herself. “This isn’t the way to do it, we have a constitution, we have rule of law!”

“Did the men and women who bombed my wedding care for the rule of law? Did the monsters who burned my family in their keep? Or the ones who poisoned an infant girl in her bed?!” He explodes, standing up so quickly that the ornate chair nearly topples but for the quick hand of Isaac catching it. “What about the animals who murdered my best friends, or… or my husband and children?” 

Marin strides up, taking his hand in hers. “Not like this. We have laws to separate ourselves from the animals and the monsters. We are better than this.  _ You  _ are better than this. Remember your words,  _ ‘A Phoenix Rising’.  _ Rise above.”

For a moment, Derek watches his elder self deliberate, before his eyes go hard, and he pulls his hand back from the leader of the Senate’s coldly. “A phoenix is born of fire. He rises from the ashes, and from the very beginning, there were those that sought to keep my reign in the dust.”

“And you have them facing justice, but it must be the Constitution’s justice.”

“No, I don’t yet have them all.” Derek mutters, shaking his head. “Seize her.” He orders, and suddenly, Kali is there, restraining her. 

“Derek!’ Marin barks, shocked. “What are you  _ doing?!”  _

“What I should have done a long time ago. From the beginning, you wanted me gone. You ‘suggested’ I abdicate. You stayed my hand when I should have acted. From the minute the crown was mine, you have acted against its interests. Marin Morrell, I name you traitor to Carolingia, and I sentence you to die.” He snarls. 

The Proconsul’s protests quickly fade to silence as Kali drags her from the room, and Derek reseats himself on the throne, before Isaac speaks up. “The Senate won’t like that, Your Grace.” 

“Let them complain. The first movement against me, I’ll have the lot in a noose before sundown.” He replies. 

The dreaming, omniscient emperor watching all of this feels his stomach revolt in disgust, but he cannot vomit, and he cannot wake, and instead finds himself whisked into a dark room, looking again at this maddened future self, who leans against the mantle of a burning fireplace. Behind him, a woman dressed all in black sits, covered by a barely transparent veil that reaches to the floor in all directions. On her head, keeping the veil in place, is an ornate crown of black wrought iron in a pattern of Celtic knots. 

“How will you do it?” The woman, now revealed to be none other than Laura, asks. 

Derek shrugs, not looking away from the flames. “I don’t know. Firing squad?”

She shakes her head. “No. Derek, we are the last Hales. What is our house motto?”

_ “Together, We Rise.”  _ He recites. 

“The words of a phoenix. So long as we are together, we will survive a hundred fires, and we will keep rising. Show them what it means to be a phoenix.” Laura says, rising from her chair to grasp her brother’s arm. “Show them how we dealt with traitors in the old days.” 

A look of resolution fills the mad emperor’s eyes. “You’re right. Tell Kali to raise the stakes outside of Alexander’s Hall. They burn at dawn.” 

**-Ω-**

Derek, the  _ right  _ Derek, sits up straight in his bed, gasping frantically and covered in a layer of cold sweat. 

_ “Fuck!”  _ He quietly curses to himself. “Oh, Gods…” 

Even with the details of the nightmare fading, all he can remember is the horrible, utterly gleeful look in that other version of him’s eyes as he contemplated burning people at the stake. Rising from his bed, Derek makes his way through his rooms to the small private kitchen he has, and pours himself a glass of chocolate milk. The milk is a trick that goes back years to when he was a small child, and has never failed to calm him down after a nightmare. 

When the glass is drained and he feels better, Derek makes himself a promise to never,  _ never  _ fall so low. Even if he is broken, he will not allow himself to become that cruel monster. Even if he has to die to prevent it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Stiles and Derek get close at Versailles, Scott meets his new best friend, and the survivor from the drone strike has some tales to tell about those mines.


	9. Settling In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be quite honest, I actually didn't enjoy most of this chapter, but I need it to get to the goodies. A litany of name drops and a few hints at where this whole thing is going, along with the birth of a beautiful friendship.

Eighty-seven individuals fill the Senate Chamber. Ranging in age from twenty-seven to ninety, they have been appointed by the dukes and duchesses of the forty-four provinces, two per each to fill the seats left behind by the annihilation of the previous Senate in the bombing. Derek stands, in full sapphire regalia, on the rostrum before these people, some of whom are retired Senators called back into service, others up and coming members of the provincial legislatures, others still widows and widowers of Senators lost in the bombing. 

To Derek’s right is Proconsul Marin Morrell, and to his left, the newly-named Speaker of the Assembly, Jonathan Deucalion, representing the city of Manchester in the Assembly. The Imperial Guard, in dress uniform, lines the back wall of the chamber, and the press crowds viewing balconies. 

“Senators!” Derek calls, speaking into the microphone on the desk. “Your attention, please. As per my duty, I will now administer the oath of office to you.” 

All at once, the room goes still, and the Senators cease what they are doing, all heading to their assigned seats and standing at attention, right hands raised. Derek allows them a moment before he begins speaking.

“Do you swear that you shall faithfully uphold the duties of the office that you are about to assume?”

Eighty-seven voices respond. “I do.”

“And do you swear that you shall defend this empire from all enemies, foreign and domestic, whenever you are called to do so?”

“I do.”

“Finally, do you swear that you shall forever act in the interests of the empire and its citizens ahead of your own?”

“I do.”

Derek smiles proudly. “Then, as Emperor and Sovereign of the Empire of Carolingia, I do hereby officially swear in you, the fiftieth assembly of the Imperial Senate.” 

The room bursts into applause as the witnesses, press, and Senators themselves clap and cheer. _ At last, _they’ve put the legislature back together. The empire can finally begin to heal from this. Construction continues in earnest on Alexander’s Hall, and special elections have finally been held for the governors of the provinces and the Assembly. 

“Congratulations, Your Grace.” Speaker Deucalion says, shaking his hand. 

Derek inclines his head to the man. “Thank you, Mister Speaker. Madam Proconsul, I return the floor to you.” 

Marin gives a light bow. “Thank you, Your Grace.” She says before stepping up to the head of the rostrum to address the new body. “Senators, as per tradition, we must first nominate candidates for the position of Proconsul. Party leaders, have you decided upon nominees?” 

Five individuals all call out an affirmative, and Marin nods. “Very well. The parties shall be announced based on who has the most seats in the chamber. First, the Democratic Party.”

One of the youngest members of the chamber stands to address to floor. “The Democratic Party nominates the incumbent Proconsul, Marin Morrell.” She says. 

The Proconsul nods. “I accept the nomination of my party. Next, the Conservative Party.” 

Another one of the younger members calls out. “The Conservatives nominate the esteemed Senator from Tuscany, Proconsul Morrell.” 

That one clearly catches her off guard, but she nods. “I accept the nomination of the Conservative Party.” 

It continues. She calls out the Irish Socialist Party, the Democratic Union Party, and the Iberian Conservative Party, all of whom nominate her. Each party’s nomination clearly comes as a shock to her, but not to Derek. He had hoped this would happen. When the Proconsul opens the floor for self-nominations, none step forward, and rather than hold a voice vote, Marin simply asks for unanimous consent, which is granted, and it’s clear that, at least until next year’s election, there will be a unity government in the Senate. The Assembly is a different story, but with six hundred seats to the Senate’s eighty-eight, a unity government isn’t to be expected.

Most surprisingly, perhaps, was that the Democratic Party had managed to retain most of the seats they’d held prior to the attack, with only a handful defecting, mostly in Yugoslavia, Iberia, and Ireland, all of which had strong regional parties that tended to coalition build with one of the two larger ones. 

As the new Senate settles in to start committee assignments, Derek makes his way out into the hallway outside the chamber, where Erica is currently in a press gaggle. Putting on his most charming grin, the emperor steps to the side of his Comms Director, waiting for her to finish. “I’ll be happy to take a few questions.” He says.

The group bursts into noise before a middle aged man with a microphone labeled _ CNC _steps up. “Your Grace, James Aosta, Carolingian News Center,” He begins, “Do you have any comment on the national unity government that just formed?”

Derek smiles. “I am very pleased that all of the parties, as ideologically diverse as they are, were able to rally around Proconsul Morrell. She has proven an excellent leader through these difficult times, and she has earned her position many times over.” 

Another reporter comes forward. “Daisy Corin, Irish Free Press. Your Grace, now that the Imperial Congress has been reassembled, do we have a timetable on when Continuity of Government protocols will be rolled back?”

“Yes, well, we still need a cabinet and both houses must vote to end the protocols. Until then, I can’t actually remove them myself, as per the constitution. So, to answer your question, I am hoping within the next two months we will have a fully assembled government again and that Congress will vote to repeal.” He replies. “Yeah, Gio, from the_ Roman Post.” _

“Would you care to comment on the Italian noble, Genim Stilinski, that you were dancing with at your coronal reception?” The reporter asks.

Derek blushes and swallows the leap of fear in his chest at the mention of Stiles. “Uh… Sir Genim has been kind enough to join me at court, and I am looking forward to getting to know him and all of the other members of the nobility who have agreed to be at court. That’ll be all, you all have a wonderful day.” 

**-Ω-**

“This is quite the honored spot, isn’t it, Lord Delgado?” Stiles asks. 

The man who volunteered to show him to his new quarters nods enthusiastically. “It is, and please, call me Scott. Derek prefers an informal court. These quarters are usually reserved for the most esteemed guests of the Crown.” 

“Call me Stiles. The most esteemed guests, huh?” He asks, impressed at the beautiful accommodations, with their high ceilings, teal walls with gold trim, and wooden parquet floors. 

“It’s pretty clear that Derek holds you in high esteem, Stiles.” Scott says with a sly smirk. 

Stiles blushes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Hey, what’s the palace wifi password, I have homework to do.” 

“Choose the one labeled _ ‘Knock Knock’, _ it’s the private network. Password is _ ‘WhosThere45’, _capital W and T, no spaces.” 

**-Ω-**

Laura looks down at the banner that’s been made for her brother in awe. Finally, the Crown College of Arms has designed his personal insignia, and it’s beautiful. The Collins family arms run back to when they were the Highland Kings, a knight’s helmet over a shield with an argent wolf, rampant on a field of azure. The mantling has been in the colors of the Scottish flag, blue and white, since unification, but before then, the mantling and field were red and gold, the colors of Alba. 

The Collins wolf and the Hale phoenix now both rise from the flames that frame them in place of mantling, each standing rampant towards one another. It’s hard to tell where the tongues of flame become fur and feather, and each of the animals is crowned, as per tradition in royal insignias. The whole banner is in azure and argent, and it is more beautiful than she imagined. 

Just as she is finished looking at it, the door into the emperor’s apartments swing open, and Derek strides in. “Just who I was looking for.” She says, hiding the banner. 

“What priceless historical artifact did you destroy?” Derek asks, wary at the sight of her hands behind her back.

“None!” Laura cries indignantly. “The College of Arms delivered this. They’re putting up more in the throne room as we speak.” With that, she presents her brother with his arms. 

Immediately, Derek rushes over, a look of sheer joy painted on his face. “Gods, it’s beautiful!” He says. “Oh, Laur, I love it!”

“Thought you would. Come on, help me pin this over your bed.” She instructs. 

As they hang the banner over Derek’s great four post bed, he likens it back to the days when they lived together in Castle Collins, pinning up football club flags over their beds in their rooms back in Scotland. The conversation spirals into a session of memories and stories that easily lasts until dinner, at which point, they break, as Derek has asked to take dinner with Stiles out in the gardens. 

Out in the sprawling gardens, they find themselves in one of the more iconic spots, the Ballroom Grove, one of the outdoor ballrooms from the original construction during the reign of Raphael I. With its beautiful rock grove and many fountains, Derek has to admit he’s rather proud of his decision to have dinner here. Gentle orchestra music plays from speakers lining the sunken space, and palace staff place their meals on the small dining table before excusing themselves.

“Quite a setup.” Stiles remarks. “Makes that balcony in San Marino look shoddy.” 

Derek shakes his head. “The view was better, and San Marino had its charms.”

“One of whom sits across from you now.”

“Smartass.” The emperor snorts. “How’s the food?”

Stiles makes an affirmative noise, as he is too busy digging in to speak. Throughout the dinner, they make easy conversation, and each is surprised by what they learn of the other. To Derek, his companion reveals a rather geeky side to himself, as he lists off historical facts about Versailles that even the monarch didn’t know. Stiles finds that, underneath the crown and the finery, Derek is stunningly simple man. Not to say that he’s foolish, because he’s not, the emperor is actually whip smart. No, Derek is a simple man in that he is plain with his intentions and not the least bit duplicitous in his speaking. He is perhaps the most authentic noble that Stiles has ever had the pleasure of speaking with. 

After finishing their meals, Derek uses his phone to turn up the volume on the music, and offers an outstretched hand to Stiles, which the other man takes. With an easy grace, they whirl around, listening to the music as it blends with the song of the night and the babble of the fountains around them. As the piece reaches its crescendo, Derek leans in closer, pressing his lips to Stiles’ gently. 

The kiss becomes more heated than that first innocent exchange in Italy. When Stiles presses his tongue against his emperor’s lips, Derek obliges him entrance, and sparks sing up and down both of their spines with that first meeting. Derek’s hand drifts up to cup his partner’s face, and the dance comes to a halt as the song ends and the next begins, but still, they stand, each wrapped in one another. Finally, they break apart, faces inches from one another as they seek to catch their breaths.

“I… Gods, I want you in my bedroom.” Derek says breathlessly.

“I am _ so _down. Like, really, and I’m not just saying that because you control half of the continent.” 

The emperor rolls his eyes. “More like a third. Anyway, as much as I would like to, I wanna do this right. Court you and all that crap.” 

“You can definitely be nailing me and courting me. Seriously, Derek, I am flexible on this.” He replies. 

Derek chuckles darkly as he nips at the juncture of his companion’s jaw and neck. “No, Stiles. I want to do this properly. Besides, what sort of ruler would I be if I just caved on the whims and desires of those around me? Might as well appoint a regency and be done with it then and there.” 

“If it means I get pressed against your mattress,” Stiles pants, “Then I’ll lead the vote on the Senate floor myself.” 

The two men break into laughter at the line, and Derek leads him back towards the stone walls of the palace, leaning against one another with their arms around each other’s waists as they go.

**-Ω-**

The next morning, after frantically working himself over in the shower to the memory of Derek’s teasing after dinner, Stiles finds himself in one of the libraries in the wing of the palace that is closed to the public and reserved for those at court. With him is Scott and Archduchess Lydia Martin, who cuts a beautiful, and quite intimidating, figure. 

The space is every bit as beautiful as the rest of Versailles, and he’s impressed with the modern nature of it. Multiple televisions are plugged into the walls, and an array of the latest top of the line video gaming systems are kept concealed in cabinets, along with an enormous stock of games. There’s also a long row of computers where several other members of the court sit, some working, others just killing time. 

Stiles, however, is engaged in quite a match on the Yinchuan map of _ Call of Duty: Wars of China _against Scott, while Lydia watches impassively from where she is curled up in an armchair, occasionally pointing out strategic moves both of the boys could make against one another in their one-on-one fight. 

After Scott is downed for a sixth time to Stiles’ four, he turns, snapping playfully at Lydia. “I hope I can learn to play both sides half as well as you can when I get to the Imperial Council.” He proclaims.

“Politics is ugly bullshit and ceaseless flattery, dread the day you succeed your mother, Scott.” She replies. 

Stiles snickers. “Quite the mouth for an Archduchess, Lady Martin.” He says. 

Lydia levels a burning, imperious gaze on him. “Fuck. You.” The curse is delivered with a cheeky grin and a middle finger. 

“Careful, Stiles, if this were Edinburgh, she could have you hanging by the flagpole over the castle.” 

“And piss off Derek? I don’t think even she wants that.” He shoots back. 

The archduchess sits up, now intrigued. “So it’s _ ‘Derek’ _now, is it?” She asks. 

_ “Maaaaaaybe.” _ Stiles draws out the word, now flushing with a bit of embarrassment. 

“Oh, I see,” Scott drawls, now jumping on the bandwagon. “And how long before we’re all bowing to His Grace, the Emperor Consort?” He teases. 

“Not long enough to avoid me kicking your ass for a seventh time!” He laughs as the next match begins.

**-Ω-**

Derek has just finished dressing when the knock at his chamber door comes, and Boyd peaks his head in. “Derek, Argent wants a word. General Parrish is here as well.” He says. 

“Alright,” The emperor nods. “I’ll be out shortly.” 

Finishing up, he heads out onto his balcony, where Parrish and Argent stand. Both of the men wear twin looks of discomfort, their faces drawn and posture tense. The air immediately becomes heavy, and dread fills the young monarch as he walks up to his head general and the leader of his council. “Gentlemen, what can I do for you?” He asks, proud that he can keep his voice from wavering. 

“I am afraid we have terrible news, Your Grace.” Gerard says. 

“Is anyone hurt?!” Derek demands, now frantic.

Parrish shakes his head. “No, nothing so urgent. However, I fear we’re all in terrible danger. The survivor from the drone strike, Lovro Božic… he talked.” 

Gerard sighs. “He told us where they acquired the mines for the bombing.” 

_ “And?!” _Derek snarls. 

“The mines were taken from a secure storage facility at Crown Air Force Lakenheath.” Parrish explains. “CAF Lakenheath’s storage can only be accessed by the highest levels of the military. Less than fifty people have the authority to get at what’s in their vaults. I’d venture less than a dozen have the authority to do so without alarms getting raised or questions asked.” 

The news is like ice water in Derek’s veins. “We have a traitor in our midst…” He whispers, now horrified.

“A check at Lakenheath confirms, thousands of mines leftover from the Kashmir War that were marked for disposal are missing.” Argent says. 

“Enough to bring down the palace.” Derek ventures.

“No, Your Grace.” The general says. “Enough to demolish a major metropolitan city.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to tell me this sucked, I know I feel like it did. I did like Derek being a royal tease, though. As much as I have those two waiting to get it on, sooner or later I'll cave and write a sex scene, because I am a weak man. Next chapter, Derek finally gets to stop acting like he's actually running this joint, until he has to run the joint once again, Stiles provides some pretty solid advice, a state visit from a certain Empress of Japan, and Kali heads to Vienna because reasons...


	10. Negotiations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unlike last chapter, I ADORE this one. Satomi shows up, and don't worry, she'll be back, and Kali learns some interesting intelligence in Austria while Stiles helps Derek deal with some assholes in the Congress. To my American readers, we finally get word on what's going on here, too.

“Now, remind me how to refer to her?” Derek asks of Isaac as a palace aid finishes adjusting his tunics. 

His Chief of Staff looks up from where he’s sprawled over a couch with his trusty tablet. “Her Imperial Majesty. Also, little note, her regnal name is Keina, but her personal name is Satomi.” He answers.

“So, she’s got two names, big whoop. I have five.” He replies, snickering.

“No, Der.” Isaac shakes his head. “After she dies, Empress Satomi will be referred to in all official documentation, public broadcasts, and history books as the Empress Keina. The whole of her reign will be known as the Keina Era. The Itos have ruled going back to the BEs, if legends are to be believed. The Japanese take their monarchy extremely seriously.” 

The emperor sighs. “So I should expect yet another stuffy old politician, then.” 

“Not necessarily, but to refer to her the way you do with the League monarchs would be a huge breach of protocol.” He replies.

“So, I call her Your Majesty?” 

“Correct. And be sure to bow at at _ least _a ninety degree angle. A simple curtsy won’t do you any good with this crowd.” 

**-Ω-**

Empress Satomi Ito’s arrival at Versailles is a rather big deal. This is illustrated by the small, thoroughly searched crowd that has been permitted inside the gates, and the much larger one outside of them. The empress herself leads the procession, dressed in a geometrically-patterned black and white kimono. She wears no crown, favoring instead to place her hair up in large curls reminiscent of the 1940’s in style. When her procession reaches where Derek waits at the end of the massive, parqueted courtyard leading to the main entrance to the palace, she levels her critical gaze up at him and he resists the urge to flinch.

Despite him having at least six inches in height on the older woman, he feels small under her probing, skeptical eyes. The visual exchange lasts less than a second, and then they are both bowing deeply to one another in an exchange that mirrors both equality and submission to each other. The palace majordomo speaks up in her booming voice.

“Your Grace, I present Her Imperial Majesty, Satomi Ito, Empress of Japan.” She calls out. “Your Majesty, I present His Grace, Derek Marcus Raphael Alexander Hale, Emperor of Carolingia and King of Francia.” 

Rising from the bow, Derek swallows and inclines his head at the visiting empress. “I welcome you, Your Majesty, to Versailles.” 

Satomi’s voice, speaking with the accent of far East Asia, is sharp and clear like a bell. “You are most kind to welcome me, Your Grace.”

“Please, come in. My home is yours.” 

They proceed through the halls to a sitting room, where two arm chairs angled towards one another. Each monarch sits, having a private conference scheduled before a more public one that includes the Proconsul and the Prime Minister of Japan. 

Derek clears his throat and speaks first. “May I offer Your Majesty some refreshments? The flight from Tokyo must have been quite tiresome, even with a stopover in Constantinople.” 

Satomi gives a wry half smile. “Some of that legendary Francian wine would be lovely. A vintage red, if you are able. Let me also deliver my deepest condolences for the loss of your husband. I had no chance to visit during his brief time on the throne, but I knew Empress Caroline quite well, and met Diego often during his tenure as Crown Prince. He was a fine man.” 

“Thank you for your condolences, they mean quite a bit. As for the wine, of course,” He replies, having been briefed on the empress’ favorite wine ahead of time. “Our cellar is legendary. Demetri, two glasses of the Chateau Margot, 1968, please.” 

“I see you have been studying my prior visits.” The empress chuckles. “I’ll admit, I’ve studied what little I can on you, as well.” 

“And what have you found of me, Your Majesty?” He asks.

“That is the thing,” She says, leaning closer to him with those appraising eyes. “I have found a man ruling by the seat of his pants. Engaging in firefights one moment and taking photos with passersby on the street the next. You’re a bit of an enigma to the rest of the world, Your Grace.” 

“If it pleases you, ma’am, you may call me Derek. Our nations are old friends. After all, it was a Carolingian who brokered the marriage that reconciled House Hamada of Manchukuo with Japan.” Derek says. 

A flash of surprises goes through the woman’s eyes. _ Ah, _ he thinks to himself. _ Hadn’t expected me to actually know a bit of history, had you? _

Satomi speaks cautiously. “I’m gratified, Derek. It is well that you remember where the bonds of friendship were forged. What is it the Chinese call the regency of Emperor Tadashi III? My old mind is slipping.” 

_ Bullshit, you’re sharp as a katana. _ “I believe they refer to Cassandra Hale as Good Lady Cass.” He evenly replies. “It was the start of the Manchurian Golden Age that carried for a good two centuries.” 

“Oh, that’s right. Well, I suppose if you prefer a more casual relationship, I would be happy to use our given names _ in private.” _The emphasis makes plain that Japanese sensibility around propriety that Isaac had mentioned. 

Derek nods. “I’m honored, Satomi.” 

Then, the staffer returns, knocking on the door and entering with the two glasses that Derek had requested. He places them on the end table between them, and bows before making his exit. The young emperor takes his, and raises it to touch Satomi’s, the room filling with the ringing of glass meeting glass.

“To the long, prosperous friendship between our states.” He says.

Satomi nods approvingly. “Indeed. To the past, and to a long, prosperous future, as well.” 

**-Ω-**

After their little showdown, the discussion devolves into the minutiae of policy, particularly surrounding the Strait of Pakistan. Even if the Mauryans were cleared of any involvement in the bombing, they were still a considerable adversary prone to lashing out even at states outside of the Delian League that were friendly with its members. 

“A potential blockade of the Strait would do untellable damage to our economy.” The empress says. “During the Kashmir War, Japan went into terrible recession because we were forced to route our ships through the already overcrowded Hellespont, and that wasn’t even as bad as it could have been. Should the Indonesians involve themselves in a future conflict and blockade the Strait of Malacca, we would lose all access to the Bengali Republics and Africa, and more than half of our access to Siamese ports.” 

“The Imperial Navy maintains bases in Sri Lanka for this very reason. I’ve spoken with Admiral Bergman, commander of the INBOB forces, and he assures me that the Bengal Fleet is ready for deployment to Malacca within a day of the order being given. Likewise, the President of the United States assures me that the Third and Seventh Fleets can deploy to join us, and their Fifth Fleet is fully prepared for action in the Strait of Pakistan.” He replies. 

Satomi shakes her head. “The Americans only interceded in the Kashmir War because Byzantium was cutting oil exports to make sure their ground forces in Maurya had enough on their own.” 

“You can thank President Bush Senior for that. Listen, the new President has assured me herself that should the Mauryans step out of line, they will step to our aid. They’ve echoed this view on both sides of their Congress, as well.” Derek attempts to reassure her. “Likewise, we’re prepared to deploy ground-to-ground missile strikes against military infrastructure from launch points in Afghanistan and Tibet. Two centuries ago, the armies of the League came down the Himalayas and subjugated Maurya. If need be, now our missiles can do the same.” 

A knock at the door interrupts their discussion. “Pardon me, Your Grace, Your Majesty, Proconsul Morrell and Prime Minister Yukimura are ready for you.” Erica interrupts. 

“Very well.” The empress says. 

“Your Majesty, this is my communications director, Erica Reyes.” Derek says, and the younger woman bows deeply. 

“It’s an honor, Your Majesty.” She says. 

Satomi walks over, placing her under that same scrutinizing gaze. “So you are the young woman who has kept the public so confident in the leadership around here. You are a credit to your emperor, and your nation.” 

Erica flushes, but beams under the praise. “Thank you so much, ma’am. I’m simply glad to be of service to my empire.”

From there, they proceed to the Hall of Mirrors, where four podiums have been set up for a presser with Japanese and Carolingian reporters. Already, Morrell, as well as a handsome, middle aged man that must be Prime Minister Ken Yukimura wait at their respective spots, and the press corps stands at attention when the majordomo announces the monarchs. Taking their respective podiums, they wait for the first question that, as per tradition, goes to the visiting party.

A reporter from a newspaper somewhere in Bohemia speaks up. “Prime Minister, can you comment on the recent trade deal reached with Mexico regarding automotive manufacturing, specifically concerns that you have exported jobs out of your country?”

Mr. Yukimura is unphased by the overt jab in the question. “I can assure you, we have not exported jobs. Cars are still assembled in Japan, it is simply that certain parts are being made in Mexico and brought to us to assemble, and these are only parts which come from materials extracted in Mexico. We are lowering burdens on our automotive workers, _ and _lowering the overall cost of domestically made vehicles for the public.” 

The next question goes to Derek, from a reporter for the EBC, who speaks with a posh Londoner accent. “Your Grace, I’ve just received this report from a _ highly _trustworthy source. Does the palace have anything to say regarding rumours that the explosives used in the 23 May bombings were stolen from secure storage at CAF Lakenheath, and that a great deal more of them were stolen than were used in the attack or were destroyed in the strike that wiped out YLF leadership?”

The presser explodes into chaos after that.

**-Ω-**

“I want the name of _ every _ person who knew about the theft.” Derek snarls at Boyd. “This is a fucking _ disaster. _And what about the progress on those leads Kali was talking about?” 

“Amelios is ex-intelligence. She’s gone dark while she’s following them, and her scheduled check-in isn’t for another four days. Last reports had her in Munich.” He responds. “Your Grace, I have concerns…”

“Your concerns will have to wait a moment, Captain.” Marin’s voice breaks from across the study. “I need a word, Your Grace. Urgently.”

Derek looks up, frustration and defeat clear in his eyes. “What now? Proof that I’m not actually the heir to the throne and nothing but a usurper? An asteroid about to fall on all our heads?” 

“Nothing so interesting, but something far more insidious, I’m afraid.” She says, laying her tablet on the desk in front of him.

_ “The Imperial Security Act of 2019…” _ He reads. “I thought that bill died in committee in the Assembly. It’s a massive overreach, there’s no way the public will sit for this.” 

She shakes her head. “The public just learned that thousands of leftover explosives were stolen right from under our noses, and they’re still unaccounted for. I’d say they’ll be willing to sit through massive overreaches if it means that they won’t be blown sky high.”

“So the bill’s been reintroduced in the Senate. Do they have the votes?”

“I’m haranguing my caucus to shoot it down, but I have a sinking feeling it’ll pass. I’ll be overridden if I try to prevent a vote in the first place. As for the Assembly, Speaker Deucalion has indicated he’ll vote for it himself.” 

Derek curses. “I never liked that one. How’d he get the job, anyway?” 

“He was Proconsul of the Senate of England before he ran to represent Manchester in the Assembly, and held the highest ranking of the incoming freshmen. He was an obvious pick, I suppose.” She explains. 

“So, what do I do about the bill?” The emperor wonders. “The emperor hasn’t vetoed a bill since Alexander IV in 1914.” 

“It’s your prerogative, Derek.” Marin replies. “If you truly wish to do veto the bill, do so. You have the constitutional right. If you choose to be a strong executive, you need to do it now.” 

**-Ω-**

At a small hotel in one of the more quiet parts of Vienna, Kali Amelios awaits the potential informant she contacted. Investigations into the twelve suspected traitors responsible for getting into Lakenheath have turned up only one lead, a connection to one General Alan Deaton. It seems General Deaton, raised in Holland but attending Belgrade Officer’s School during his time in the Army, was intimately involved in putting down a militant branch of the YLF in the Nineties. What were the chances he’d turned coat? 

Her contact is an informant for the various intelligence agencies of the Europe, having flipped and exposed what could have been a deadly attack in Kiev by separatists in the Polish Ukraine. Since then, he has lived just south of the Polish border in a small Austrian village. With his fingers in plenty of separatist movements, the young man known to her only by his cover name Ethan is her best shot. 

The boy, because he can’t be more than twenty five, enters and siddles up next to her at the bar. “How’s it, love?” He asks as he flags for a drink. 

“Not too bad. Yourself?” 

“Been balancing my life on a fulcrum lately, feels like.” 

There’s the key word. “Like dancing on the head of a pin.” She shoots back. 

At once, the boy’s casual air leaves him. “You summon me to a major city without giving me a reason why and threaten to leave me to rot in a prison on the Faroe Islands if I don’t show, you better have a damn good payday for me.”

“Is the gratitude of the Crown not payment enough?” Kali asks haughtily. “I am on a mission from His Grace himself.”

“His Grace can shove his gratitude up his crowned asshole. Gratitude doesn’t keep me in a comfortable little house in Langau.” Ethan snipes. “I speak one language, and that’s the sweet sound of Carols, and lots of them. I’m wanted dead by no less than fifteen groups of pricks, mind you.” 

“Ξ50,000. _ If _it pays out.” She cooly replies. “Fuck me, and I’ll bury you.” 

He snickers. “Love, if I fuck you, I’ll be the one burying something in you.” 

Before he can continue, he’s suddenly made acutely aware of something very sharp near his nether regions, and Kali’s voice is sugar sweet in his ears. “Another line like that one and you’ll never bury anything again, _ love.” _

“Sheesh, you Crown Intelligence types have no sense of humor. Or adventure, for that matter.” 

“What do you know about the activities of the YLF leading up to the bombing?” She demands. 

Ethan shrugs. “Standard fare. My people inside didn’t have a clue this was coming. What’s more, they didn’t know about the leadership gathering that the emperor decided to light up with a UAV.”

“So what?” Kali queries. “Low level operatives aren’t usually privy to something this sensitive. If it leaked, it would’ve all gone tits up.” 

“Sweetheart, you really think I’m dealing with some country bumpkins pissed off about how their Assembly election went? My people were regional commanders, how do you think I kept the government paying me for the last three years?” He replies. 

That _ is _ interesting. “You’re telling me that the second tier of leadership didn’t know about a meeting of the first that was being held after they’d blown up the entire government _ and _tried to assassinate the sitting emperor?” 

“Yep.” He says, sipping from his drink. “You lot caught most of my people in the raids the night of the strike, but I have a few still hanging around. Word is someone is trying to reconstitute what’s left and link them to a few more general antimonarchist groups. Some friends in the Republican Group have said the same, as has a Scottish partisan I keep in touch with.” 

Kali swallows the bile rising in her throat. “Alan Deaton. The name sound familiar?” 

“Now _ that _door is gonna cost a little extra to get into, my dear.” Ethan utters, now sounding slightly panicked.

“How much extra?” She deadpans.

Ethan looks around before lowering his voice. “I want guaranteed safe passage and a nice little house in Malta for my brother and I. I also want a promise that my involvement will be redacted from every version of the report that comes out of all of this except for the one that’s labeled _ ‘For Crown Eyes Only.’ _” 

Surprise floods the guardswoman. “You’re really afraid of this.” 

“Yes or no, Agent?!” He demands. 

“… Deal.”

“You secured your hotel room from listeners, I assume?” She nods her confirmation. “We’ll talk there.” 

After a brief trip upstairs, they’re in Kali’s secured room, and Ethan sits down on the bed, taking a deep breath to steady himself. “You know what Deaton did for the Crown. Put down that branch of the YLF that was dropping bombs and shooting at Feds all over the YS back in the Nineties.” 

“Earned him a commendation, and command of the Tenth Army, the domestic forces for Yugoslavia.” She replies. “What else did he do?” 

“How do you think he got in as close as he did, as personally as he did?” Ethan asks rhetorically. “Deaton ran a long con on that branch, built up men loyal to _ him. _They call him The Vet, because he puts down anyone who’s even suspected of going traitor like dogs. There was a putsch against him, and he had his forces slaughter the traitors. Called it a military op, but it wasn’t. He siphoned funds from the YLF and paid off the commandos he was leading to take credit for it.”

“Gods…” Kali mutters, feeling sick. “What happened to the loyalists and the commandos?” 

“The commandos all let their contracts expire, went dark. The loyalists also went dark. There’s something else, too.” He says. 

“What?” 

“Deaton cleaned up shop. Everything I’m telling you, there’s no proof. He’s meticulous. The one who told me all this wound up dead a few hours later. _ That _is why I left Czechia. My contact promised that he’d see me the next day, tell me about some group called the Dread Doctors. Poor fucker never had the chance.” 

_ “Fuck.” _She curses. “You’re staying close to me. I’ll pack this shit in, and then we’re going to your house until I can arrange for your little trip to Malta.” 

A wry grin cracks the informant’s face. “Oh, so now I’m under the protection of the Crown Intelligence Service?”

“Nope. You, Ethan, are now under the care of the Imperial Guard.” She replies. “Congrats, _ love, _ you’ve made it to the big leagues.”

**-Ω-**

Derek finds himself with Stiles later that evening. The two of them are spread out on the emperor’s bed, with Derek flipping through the text of the new and deeply concerning security bill and Stiles working on a paper for his classes while some cartoon from when they were kids plays on the television to fill the noise.

“Gods, listen to this!” Derek says in disgust. _ “‘The security services shall have the authority to observe the internet metadata of any individual within the bounds of the empire, and of all current and former citizens traveling and living abroad, should they find reason. To view actual activity, the services shall draw up a formal request and submit it to the courts.’ _They want to make it so that they don’t need a warrant to spy on you, unless they wanna see specifically what you’re looking at!” 

Stiles turns back at him, shock plain on his face. “That’s gotta be all sorts of unconstitutional. You’re not seriously gonna put your signature on that?” He demands.

“It’s not that simple, Stiles. It has been a hundred and five years since a regent vetoed a bill. If I kill the _ first _one that comes out the Congress, what message does that send about my reign?” The emperor asks. “Obviously I hate this, but I can’t just overrule the democratically elected leaders of this empire.” 

“Well…” Stiles sounds like he’s in deep thought. “Security has been pretty slack in the country, dude. I mean, some aspects of this bill are valid, it just goes a little too far.”

“What’s your point?”

Stiles sits up, grabbing Derek’s hands into his. “You could send feelers to the Congress about working with the Senate and Assembly on a more moderated bill that protects the people _ and _doesn’t stomp on the Constitution. Didn’t Empress Marguerite work with them on the Telecommunications Act of 1996?” 

“That’s actually not a bad idea. I’ll talk to Marin and Isaac about getting Deucalion and the committee chairs for a sitdown.” He replies. “Have you been taking a government course this semester?”

“Last semester, actually.” Stiles chuckles. “But I may have been rereading the textbook lately.”

Derek leans over and pulls the younger lord into a chaste kiss. “I’m courting a political genius, good to know.”

“I just really like technicalities.” 

**-Ω-**

The meeting with the Speaker and the committee chairs is a disaster. As soon as Derek mentions his discomfort with the Imperial Security Act in its present form, the chair of the Assembly Intelligence Committee speaks up.

“Respectfully, Your Grace,” She says, “You only sit here because of the failures of the previous Crown and Congress to protect their citizens. We will not make those same mistakes, and we _ will _protect the current Crown and all future iterations.” 

Isaac scoffs. “There wasn’t a respectful word in that sentence, Madam Chairwoman.” He snarls. “In fact, it sounds like you’re rather cross that Emperor Derek is on the throne.” 

Deucalion’s smooth voice cuts. “I implore you, forgive Miss Walker. She lost quite a few friends in the bombing, but she truly means well, and she truly means to keep Your Grace safe. Her loyalty is beyond reproach, I assure you.”

Assemblywoman Walker has the grace to look slightly chagrined. “”My deepest apologies, Your Grace.”

“Accepted.” Derek replies.

“Now, as to this bill, I can understand concerns around the right to privacy, but the press’ usage of the phrase _ ‘domestic espionage’ _is a gross exaggeration.” Speaker Deucalion says. “The bill’s language is clear, the security services’ ability to observe internet and phone metadata is meant to be used sparingly, under specific circumstances.” 

“Frankly, Mister Speaker, the language is a bit too vague for my liking.” Derek replies. “That is why we are gathered here, because I, as sovereign, am responsible for creating and enforcing the many laws of this land, and I will not be party to the creation and enforcement of laws I feel violate the sacred, Gods-given rights of my citizens. I swore to uphold the Constitution, and I will do that.”

Marin attempts to cut in, but Deucalion rolls directly over her to speak. “I am sure you mean well, Your Grace, but it has been more than a century since a monarch has vetoed a bill. You don’t mean to set precedent of defying the will of the duly elected Congress, do you?” 

Derek’s jaw starts to jut out, and he rises from his desk to look down at the seated legislators. “I am sworn to defend Carolingia, her constitution, and her people from all enemies, foreign _ and _ domestic. To surrender our rights to fear is to make ourselves enemies of the Empire, the Constitution, and the people. Esteemed members, if the bill as you have presented it reaches my desk, I will veto it, and you shall that find you do not have the votes to overrule me _ or_ to instate a regency. You are dismissed.” 

Wordlessly, the congressional delegation departs, and the enraged emperor sags back into the chair behind his desk, all traces of the fury on his face gone. “Shit.” He curses.

“Indeed.” Marin echoes bleakly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts, thoughts, thoughts!! Tell me yours! Next chapter, the showdown with the Congress takes on a whole new, more public dimension, Stiles gets a visit, and Kate Argent arrives at court with a proposition. Also, there's a not-at-all-subtle Big Hero 6 reference in here, get yourself a cookie if you catch it.


	11. Playing Politics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woof, this is a dialogue-heavy chapter that gets into the minutiae of Carolingian politics. Enjoy!

With everything going on, it had taken quite some time to find time in the emperor’s busy schedule to organize the first formal gathering of the Imperial Court, but it had finally come to pass on a crisp September day that heralded the imminent arrival of autumn. Stiles had been rather amazed by the parade of dukes, duchesses, lords, and ladies, as well as several of the available archdukes and archduchesses. Aside from the landed nobility, there were many more of the landless nobility, those who were either heirs to future titles, as he was, or those who had been given non-hereditary titles by the Crown.

What had been most astounding was that Stiles was permitted on the dais in the throne room, despite the fact that he was heir to a small, if historically significant city. He hadn’t been next to Derek, rather Archduke Argent had sat at the emperor’s right and Lydia at his left, but he had been next to Scott, who came after Lydia. To think, he was just two chairs from the throne itself! 

Court had been an eye-opening experience. In truth, it was little more than an airing of grievances and requests for aid to the various parts of the country. It was also here that Derek made his first grant of nobility, having named the head of his security as Sir Vernon Boyd, Captain of the Imperial Guard and Shield of the Crown. For two hours, the floor had been open to the various nobles to present petitions to the emperor before they had yielded to formally receive the new Polish ambassador, whose predecessor had died in the bombing.

When court had wrapped up and the last of the nobles not on the dais had disappeared, Derek had sagged in his throne with a deep sigh, stripping his crown from his head and rubbing at his temples. 

“Congress and the Crown are nearing war, a traitor has five thousand mines out there  _ somewhere,  _ and death threats reach the palace daily, but clearly the most important thing on the agenda is the damn Capellas  _ demanding  _ they be recognized as a cadet branch of House Hale because their great times twelve grandfather was the bastard of some philandering Crown Prince or other.” He moaned. 

Archduke Argent had rolled his eyes. “Near on four hundred years they’ve been banging that drum. More than once, Empress Caroline considered stripping them of their titles just to force them to go away.” 

“Molino Capella is said to be the most beautiful man in all of Sicily, certainly the most eligible bachelor, and I won’t be dethroned by a crowd of frantic suitors and frustrated housewives with rolling pins because I’ve stripped them of their fantasies of marrying a beautiful duke.” Derek dryly replied. 

Now, however, hours after his first time at court, Stiles sits in an armchair in his set of apartments, skimming the latest book he’s picked up from a small, locally-owned bookstore not far from the palace. Derek had accompanied him on that outing, as though he was rather concerned for security, he refused to be locked away in the palace. Since then, Stiles’ face has been blazoned on magazine covers the world over. 

As he pours over the novel, he is interrupted by a sharp knock on his door. “Stiles? It’s Isaac.” A voice carries through the doorway. 

He rises and walks over to open the door, smiling at the palace chief. “What’s up, man?” He asks. “Derek need something?”

“Derek’s busy at the moment, but,” Isaac says, grinning slyly, “You have a visitor.” 

He steps aside, revealing none other than Stiles’ father, dressed quite sharply for his first visit to Versailles in a great many years. With a delighted yell, Stiles runs out to pull his dad in for a tight hug. Isaac politely excuses himself, but not before saying that Derek would like everyone gathered for dinner that evening, and to dress nicely. 

“Dad, what are you doing here?!” Stiles demands, grinning like a fool. 

John Stilinski ruffles the hair on his son’s head as they walk back into the apartment. “Well, now that everything is finally settled after what happened during Derek’s visit, I figured it’s time that the Lord of House Stilinski made his appearance at court.” 

“Oh, you’re so full of shit, you missed me.” His son laughs. “You’ve always  _ hated  _ court.” 

“Guilty as charged.” He replies. “That said, I’m probably going to have to get used to it, what with me being the father of the future Emperor Consort.” 

Stiles groans. “Oh, come on! One outing makes it to the press and everyone’s acting like Derek and I are already planning the royal wedding! Not you, too!” 

“The fact that you call His Grace  _ ‘Derek’  _ speaks for itself.” 

“You sound way too smug for you own good right now.”

“That’s how you like me the best.”

**-Ω-**

Katherine Argent stews furiously to herself as she sits in the town car that drives towards Versailles. Despite the promises of Goran, that odious brat Stilinski still had the emperor making doe eyes at him. Luckily, however, she had a card that the little upstart could never play: a womb. She didn’t need the emperor’s love, or even his hand in marriage. All she needed was his seed and his signature on a surrogacy contract. 

Her fatheaded father is sure to agree to the plan, as well. How shameful he has become. The great Gerard Argent, the man who had brought rioting miners and dock workers to heel with an iron fist during the energy crisis, the man who had taught her to be as vicious as she needed to obtain her goals, is gone, replaced by a weak fool with nothing but loyalty to the crown, his family be damned.

No matter, he’ll be dealt with soon enough. The car pulls through the gates as she ruminates over how to deal with her father, only for her to be greeted by none other than the man himself. Schooling her face into gentle affection, Kate steps out of the vehicle and bows to her sire. 

“Father,” She begins. “It’s been too long.” 

Gerard nods, smiling at her as the two embrace. “I admit, Katie, I was surprised to learn that you were coming to court. You’ve been presiding over England in my stead for so long.” He says.

“Yes, well, since I have declared Allison my heir, I figured she deserved a chance to preside over the legislature and deal with squabbling lords for a bit.” She snarks.

Her father laughs, but does not reply. Instead, he simply leads her to his apartments in the palace, where they sit over tea. Finally, as he sips from a cup of Earl Grey, Gerard looks cooly at her. “No nonsense, Katherine, why are you here?” 

_ Ah,  _ she thinks to herself,  _ There’s the stone cold bastard that raised me.  _ “I come with a proposal for His Grace, the emperor.” 

The answer prompts a raised eyebrow. “What sort of proposal?”

“His Grace prefers… male company,” She delicately begins. “So, producing an heir of his blood is a bit trickier. I swore off producing an heir for myself given… given what happened to Mother. However, the throne requires an heir, and I am a single woman of standing with an heir ready to ascend to the throne should something happen to me. I am offering myself as surrogate for the emperor.” 

“You always have been good at fitting whatever role is presented to you, my dear.” He remarks, a hint of pride in his voice. “I’ve suggested the same. His Grace didn’t shoot the idea down, though he did experience a touch of discomfort with it. Perhaps coming from you, it would be more palatable. I would do so in private, he doesn’t seem to like great gestures and intimate discussion in front of court.”

Kate nods. “Perhaps over tea. I think a bit of English blood infused into the Hale line might be a good thing, since the last Argent to marry into the imperial family was… what, 1637? Long before the War of the Roses and the Silver Succession.” 

“Back when the Plantagenets were growing fat in Buckingham Palace, the roses of the north were pricking each other with their thorns, and we were but minor nobles of Norfolk. Now look at us, the Yorks, Lancasters, and Plantagenets, all gone, and House Argent rules England.” Gerard says. “We got where we were by honoring our house motto, my dear.”

_ “‘We are the Hunters’,  _ I remember, Father.” 

He grins. “Hunt down your victory, Katherine. Bring honor to your house.” 

She’ll bring more than honor. She’ll bring the  _ crown. _

**-Ω-**

It took ten minutes from the time Kali and Ethan reached the house in Langau to collect his twin brother Aiden for it all to go, as the guard would say, tits up. 

All Ethan had done was send an extremely vague text message, the contents of which read  **Pack it in, ** and after a few minutes inside the house as the twins finished collecting their things, the first bullet came through the living room window, missing one of the twins by centimeters and embedding itself dead center in the television. 

Thirty-six seconds later, four people, all in black body armor, were bursting through the front door. Kali, however, was quicker, and had her pistol drawn and ready. She put down two of the intruders in rapid succession, but was forced to duck when the third fired on her, just barely missing. 

It was Aiden that dealt with that one, hurling of all things a lamp at the woman, which gave Kali the opening she needed to put her down with a well-aimed bullet to the jugular. The fourth was taken down by Ethan, who apparently kept his own knife. Jumping out from behind the couch, he threw himself onto the attacker, and with a feral cry, buried his blade in the man’s eyesocket with sickeningly wet  _ crunch. _

The sniper was another matter, and Kali was infinitely grateful that the nondescript black vehicle provided for her by the Guard was bulletproofed, and tucked into the garage attached to the house. Now, the three of them, bags packed into the trunk and still coming down from the high of the attack, speed southward from Vienna, bound for Belgrade.

“So…” Ethan trails. “What do you lot know that I don’t?” 

“Probably nothing.” She replies. “Although that attack just about confirms my suspicion that General Deaton is the one who stole the mines from Lakenheath. The question now becomes, is he the mastermind, or is he just another pawn?” 

Aiden speaks up. “I’m really glad that this isn’t my game anymore.”

“You just got back into it, baby brother. As I recall, you were fighting in the house with us.” His twin smirks into the backseat.

“Not by choice. You kept up with our old friends, I severed all ties.” 

Kali rolls her eyes. “The twin banter stopped being cute back in Langau, and it’s a long road to Tuzla.” 

“I thought we were headed for Belgrade to go get that Deaton fucker.” Ethan says, now confused. 

“We aren’t  _ getting  _ anyone. I need to check in with my people, and I have a safehouse in Tuzla that I can use for that. We sit there long enough for you two to get taken to Malta with a guard from the CIS, maybe talk about moving you to the States, and  _ I  _ go to Belgrade to lay the groundwork on an op to take out Deaton.” 

Aiden shakes his head. “That prick brought a pack of killers into our house, we owe him. We’re staying in on this!” 

“What happened to giving up the life?” His twin quips. 

“No.” Kali snaps. “I’m not bringing two retired domestic terrorists into an imperial security situation.”

“Hurtful!” 

“Rude!” 

_ “Shut up!”  _

**-Ω-**

Erica Reyes, Director of Palace Communications, considers herself a calm, reasonable sort of woman. True, she’s quite young to have inherited the position, but she likes to think that she’s been able to handle it quite well, especially given the high approval ratings that her emperor has enjoyed. All of this calm, however, has left her at the sight of Meredith Walker, chair of the Assembly Committee on Intelligence, on the Sunday morning segment of the CBC. 

_ ‘Frankly, Vivienne, I haven’t seen much of the decisive ruler we saw the night that the Yugoslavian Liberation Front was eliminated.’  _ Walker says, sitting across from the host of this hour’s bloc.

The host leans back in her chair, confused.  _ ‘How do you mean, Chairwoman?’  _

_ ‘Well, the Imperial Security Act now being considered in the Assembly is just what this country needs after the awful events of the twenty-third of May. It empowers our domestic and international security forces to take necessary steps to protect us from future attacks, but His Grace is stalwartly against it.’  _

_ ‘There are legitimate concerns about the bill, ma’am. Even Proconsul Morrell has expressed quite a bit of discomfort with the… spanning nature of it. Given the closeness of their working relationship, and the emperor’s stated desire to defend the rights of Carolingians from government overreach, why shouldn’t His Grace do what is his constitutionally-granted prerogative and veto an act he doesn’t wish to see become law?’  _

Walker is well-prepared for this line of questioning, it seems.  _ ‘Viv, no one is saying that His Grace doesn’t have the  _ right  _ to veto the act. However, a veto has not been exercised since 1914, and regents going back to Alexander III have used the power sparingly, giving clear deference to the democratically-elected legislative body over the authority of the Crown. Unless His Grace intends to back himself into a corner and govern by edict, which can be challenged in the courts, he has to extend an olive branch to the legislature.’  _

The interview goes on, and Erica fumes the entire way through. When the host thanks Chairwoman Walker for her presence and shifts to news on the US elections, she shuts off the television with a bit more force than is necessary before marching out of her office and into the general communications wing of the palace.

“Get me on with Corey Bryant at eight tonight!” She barks. “I have to go brief the emperor!” 

She pays no attention to the affirmative cries of the fearful staffers, instead marching with determination towards Derek’s office, where she lets herself in without bothering to knock. The emperor looks up from the papers he’s bent over, concern painting his face as he takes in the furious expression she wears. 

“We’re fucked!” Erica declares. “Walker went public with our little spat, called you weak  _ more than once,  _ and in no uncertain terms implied that Congress would refuse to cooperate with the Crown unless you cave on the ISA!” 

Derek’s face morphs from concern to fury.  _ “Dammit!”  _ He spits. 

She nods. “I’m going on with Corey Bryant tonight to do some damage control. You’d be wise to meet with the Proconsul and her loyalists, as well as the Democrats and Irish Socialists on Assembly Intel who aren’t comfortable with the bill.” 

“What about the Unionists? Wasn’t the rep for Serpska making some noise?” He asks. 

“I was talking to Lucas over at Legislative Affairs, it looks like the Unionists are shored up with the Cons and the Iberians.” Erica replies. “The good news is the ISP is unified against it, and there are only a handful of Democrats who are giving the others the votes they need to pass. Maybe you should talk to Morrell about sending her on the attack.” 

“How do you mean?” 

“Have her do a circuit on the national shows, Palace Comms does a social media blitz, and then have her pull those in Congress who are defecting from the party and threaten them with endorsing their primary opponents. Maybe sweeten the deal by promising to make their seats priority defenses if they’ll vote the act down.” 

The emperor leans back in his desk chair, nodding thoughtfully. “I’ll discuss it with her. Have your people draw up stuff for the social media campaign, but don’t actually launch until we get a feel for how tonight goes with Bryant.” 

“Of course. Anything else you need?” Erica asks.

“Actually, yes. I assume you heard that Kate Argent is at court?” She nods, and he continues. “She came to me with an offer. To be the mother of a… of a morganatic child. She’s offering to give me an heir to secure the succession, and after San Marino, I’m tempted.”

The communications director sits across from her friend and boss. “Der, no.” She plainly says. “We need to appear strong right now, and frankly, a morganatic baby is  _ not  _ strength. It shows desperation. That’s not even mentioning how Stiles would feel about it.” 

“Stiles understands I have duties to the empire-”

“And this goes beyond that. It’s one thing that he has to lay off the PDA, it’s another when the man he’s courting knowingly fathers a bastard child and excludes any future children of his from the succession.” She calmly retorts. “Besides, everyone and their  _ dog  _ knows what a piece of work she is. Bad enough she’ll sit on the Council someday, you can’t reward her the title of Queen Mother.” 

“Technically, she wouldn’t be the Queen Mother.” He weakly protests. 

Erica scoffs.  _ “Technically,  _ my ass. That’s what the press would call her until her dying day, and you know it.” 

The emperor stands, walking over to the windows overlooking Versailles’ sprawling grounds. “I’m afraid for my country, Erica. We have a traitor in our midst, Congress is seconds from rebelling against Marin and I, and I have no one to succeed me to throne. Yes, Laura is Crown Princess, and yes, I’ve legitimized my family as Hales, but can we really pretend that the monarchy can survive another emperor dying without an heir?” 

“Derek.” She says. “If you are that worried about it, then ask Stiles. He can donate his DNA for a genomed baby and I will carry it myself.” 

He turns around, shock painting his face. “You’re serious.” 

“As the plague. I understand you want to stabilize your rule, but I do  _ not  _ trust Kate Argent.” 

“Why do you say that?” 

“Call it a feeling. She’s just… she’s not an option.” 

Derek nods. “I’ll think on your offer. It’s very much appreciated.” 

“Don’t mention it.” She replies, pulling him in for a hug. “Now, I’m going to ream out Meredith Walker on nation television.” 

“Gods help her.” He murmurs to himself bemusedly. 

**-Ω-**

Dinner is held inside that night, in one of the larger dining rooms of the palace. As per protocol, everyone remains standing until Derek enters the room, Stiles on his arm. The emperor is seated at the head of the table, with Stiles to his right, and John Stilinski to his left. Once they are seated, the group waits until Derek has taken a spoonful of soup from the first course to begin their own meal. As soon as he does, the assembled nobles, joined by Isaac, Erica, and Boyd, break into chattering conversation. 

“John, how is it to be back at court?” Derek asks. “Stiles says it’s been a very long time since you’ve joined us.” 

The elder Stilinski tries to hide his grimace. “It’s certainly as… interesting as ever.” 

The emperor chuckles. “He also tells me you hate court with the passion of the sun god.” 

“Telling stories about your father to His Grace, are you, Stiles?” John levels an appraising gaze on him. 

_ “True  _ stories.” His son shoots back with a sly grin. 

“Don’t worry, Derek hates it almost as much as you do.” Erica says, leaning over to stage whisper. 

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t make the nobles think I hate them, Erica.” He says dryly. 

She snorts. “Like they don’t already know you do. Let’s face it, you’re at your best when you’re with the Council, not the Lord of Insert-Backwater-Town-Here.” 

_ “Why  _ do I keep you around?” 

“My dazzling wit, stunning charm, and exceptional jawline.” 

He can’t argue with that one. “I need new staff…” 

Boyd rolls his eyes. “You’d last twenty minutes before you asked us back.” He accuses. 

“The way you all speak to your emperor, utterly shocking!” Derek proclaims, only for Lydia to heckle him to shut up. 

**-Ω-**

Derek and Stiles lean against one another on the couch in Derek’s apartments, waiting for Erica to come on the eight o’clock showing of  _ CBC Tonight With Corey Bryant.  _ When she appears in-studio, she is every bit as polished and perfect as she usually is, wearing a tight blue dress, with her hair pulled back in artfully loose ponytail and her lips painted a stunning shade of crimson. 

_ ‘Joining us live and in-house tonight for the first time, please welcome the Director of Communications at the Palace of Versailles, Erica Reyes!”  _ Bryant gives an enthusiastic introduction.  _ ‘We’re very glad to have you on, Miss Reyes.’  _

_ ‘I’m glad to be here, Corey, and please, call me Erica.’  _ She insists, holding out a hand to shake the host’s. 

He leans back in his chair, consulting with this papers as he does.  _ ‘So, Erica, I’m guessing your visit tonight may have something to do with the ongoing dispute over the Imperial Security Act between Congress and the Crown.’  _

Erica grins wryly.  _ ‘Among other things, yes, I’d be glad to discuss Versailles’ position regarding the ISA.’  _

“She’s cool as a cucumber.” Stiles remarks. “I’d be trembling just sitting there.” 

Derek smiles proudly. “Erica’s damn good at what she does.” 

_ ‘Let’s get right into it, then.’  _ Corey says.  _ ‘As you’re doubtlessly aware, Assembly Intel chair Meredith Walker was on the CBC this afternoon where she gave a scathing rebuke of the emperor’s resistance to the ISA. Does the Crown have any comment regarding Chairwoman Walker’s remarks?’ _

_ ‘Indeed we do. Chairwoman Walker acts from a place of genuine concern for the safety of her country and constituents, as do all the supporters of the ISA, there is absolutely no doubt about that.’  _ Erica answers.  _ ‘However, this concern is  _ extremely  _ misguided, and, frankly, puts the very citizens they seek to protect in a much more insidious form of danger— the danger that comes when the sacred constitutional rights of everyday citizens are compromised in the name of national security.’  _

“Shit, remind me to raise whoever wrote that line’s pay.” The emperor says, grinning. 

The host nods seriously.  _ ‘How does His Grace plan to deal with threats of non-cooperation from Congress?’ _

_ ‘Chairwoman Walker’s threat is quite empty. It’s only a handful of members of Congress who are even giving this bill the support it needs to pass, and they understand that obstructing the agenda of the Proconsul of  _ their own party  _ is a very good way to lose their next primaries. Though the Crown does not involve itself in electoral politics, the Proconsul certainly does, and she is a formidable fundraiser. I would doubt there’s any member of Congress, even Speaker Deucalion, who could survive should Proconsul Morrell decide to endorse their primary opponent. In fact, if my math is correct, the Democrats could lose every seat that belongs to someone supporting the ISA, and they’d still have a comfortable majority, especially if the Irish Socialists should continue lending their support to the Proconsul as they have been.’  _

The news anchor chuckles.  _ ‘That sounds like a not-so-veiled threat, Erica. What does the Crown have to say about the very legitimate concerns for national security, especially given the theft of explosives from Crown Air Force Lakenheath that led directly to the 23 May bombings?’  _

Stiles leans over. “Time to try and sell the heavy-handed governance line.” He says, pressing a kiss to Derek’s jaw. 

_ ‘Of course His Grace has the safety of the citizens of the empire in mind at all times, which is why he extended the invitation for the meeting with the Proconsul, Speaker, and heads of the Assembly Intelligence and Judiciary Committees, at which those same members refused to even discuss a compromise with the Crown. Emperor Derek strongly wishes to work with the Congress to craft legislation that protects the safety of Carolingians  _ and  _ their rights.’  _ She says.

_ ‘Now, onto another matter, the next imperial budget…’  _

**-Ω-**

Proconsul Morrell arrives at the palace the next morning, sitting across from Derek in his private office with a wide grin on her face. “Wonderful news, I just got out of a meeting with six Assembly Democrats who’ve decided they’re backing out of the bill. There’s another fourteen to go, but that’s quite a defection.”

“Perfect!” He smiles. “What about the Senate side?” 

“Nothing yet, but Senators have longer terms, they may be wondering if they’ll be able to ride out the storm for this one.” She answers. 

Derek rolls his eyes. “We won’t let them. The comms department is prepping rollout on a huge social media campaign to try and turn the public off the ISA. Hopefully we can bring Deucalion to the table and get something that’ll protect the people and keep the Supreme Court off of your back.” 

“Have your people send the campaign stuff to my office, let’s see if the fabled DIC email list can’t turn the numbers on this bill.” Marin answers. 

Before Derek can reply, Isaac is bursting into the office, panting heavily and wearing a mask of horror on his face. 

“Isaac!” The emperor cries. 

“Stiles…” He pants. “It’s Stiles…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, Stiles isn't dead, but he's not well, Kali reaches her safehouse, and Derek faces old demons. Reviews! Please!


	12. Superposition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take note of the rating change. Y'all know what that meas. (Sex. It means sex.)

Derek is impossibly grateful for the helipad on the roof of Versailles as he rides next to the pilot while Stiles is tended to by palace medical as they fly directly towards Pantheon Hospital, the premier emergency center in Paris, which has been the go-to site for the rulers of the land since its founding in 651 AE, and is the oldest still-operating care center in the world.

They still haven’t been able to figure out what is wrong with Stiles. One moment, he was fine, taking his breakfast with Scott and Lydia, only to still, before collapsing and going into a grand mal seizure, which, according to John, he’s never had a history of. He was quickly dosed with phenobarbital, before going unresponsive, with his breathing growing more and more shallow. 

“We need to intubate!” One of the nurses says. “His breathing is shutting down!” 

It feels like a lifetime later that they touch down on a pad at Pantheon, and even the Emperor of Carolingia is left in the waiting room, only to wonder what has happened, and what will become of the brightest spot in his exceedingly dark world. 

**-Ω-**

**Isaac Lahey ✓** **   
** **@VersaillesCoS**

**Confirming reports a member of court was taken by helicopter to @PantheonMedParis. His Grace @CrownCarolingia and the rest of the Imperial Family are unharmed. Press briefing to be held this afternoon. **

Checking the spelling and grammar and finding no mistakes, Isaac hits send on the tweet that he’s sure will be the number one trend nationally before lunchtime. Gods above, what a fucking mess. He starts to wonder if this reign is cursed, and quashes that line of thinking. The last thing Derek needs in the state he’s in is his own Chief of Staff falling apart on him. 

Instead, he quietly prepares for the presser that he’ll have to deliver later on, only for one Lord Delgado to appear in his office doorway, looking exceptionally haunted. 

“Are you alright, my lord?” He asks. 

Scott looks up, and frankly shakes his head. “No, no am not. I am so far from alright that it’s not even funny. I was two feet away from him, and I couldn’t help him.” 

“You should’ve seen Derek.” Isaac replies. “When I had to tell him what happened… I thought he was gonna lose it.”

“Any word?” 

“He’s still in the ICU at the moment. They intubated him on the flight over.” He says. “Scott?” 

“Yes?”

The Chief pauses. “Stiles’ food has been saved, and it’s been sent to a lab for analysis.”

“You don’t think…” 

“It’s the only logical answer.” Isaac argues. “I have his file right here, when he filled out his dietary requirements for the kitchens, he listed no food allergies.” 

“Who could possibly slip him poison?” Scott asks. 

He shakes his head. “Boyd’s ordered the kitchen staff be taken for questioning. We’ll find out soon enough.”

**-Ω-**

Nearing lunchtime, Derek and John finally receive word, as the doctor comes out of the Intensive Care Unit, looking quite tired. Immediately, the two men are snapping up from the hard, plastic chairs of the waiting room.

“What’s the news, doctor?” John asks, still quite distressed. 

“Your Grace, my lord, testing confirms that Sir Stilinski was exposed to aconitine,” She explains. “Specifically that he ingested it. We treated him with activated charcoal, and he’s been sedated to allow him time to recover.” 

Derek makes a confused noise. “Aconitine? What is that?”

“It’s the chemical toxin derived from aconite, also known as wolfsbane.” 

Silence fills the room for a single stunned second before John Stilinski’s voice explodes.  _ “He was poisoned?!”  _

“Lord Stilinski, please do not scream.” The doctor insists. “I understand that this is a very difficult thing to hear, but, yes, that is our operative theory. Luckily, your son has an excellent prognosis, and it’s very good that the emergency responders intubated him on the flight over. We want to keep him here until he recovers consciousness, at which point we will move him to the third floor for observation. Sir Stilinski experienced some arrhythmia, which is a symptom of aconite poisoning, however his heart rate has stabilized, and the poison is no longer appearing in any of his fluids.” 

At that, both men noticeably relax, and continue to confer with the doctor about next steps until Derek is pulled aside by his guard and handed a cellphone, with Boyd on the line. 

“He was poisoned.” The emperor spits in disgust.

_ ‘I know, sir. The guard has been questioning everyone who came in and out of the kitchens today, and we’re consulting security footage, but we have a problem. All security protocols were followed, and I’ve personally watched security footage every second of Stiles’ meal from when it was made to when it went out of the door. No one did anything unusual.’  _

“What are you saying, Boyd?” 

_ ‘I’m saying that I think we need to shift our suspicions from the staff to the members of court.’  _

Cold rage fills Derek. Bad enough there’s a traitor amongst the ranks of the military, but now in his own  _ court?!  _ He’s surrounded by vipers… 

_ ‘Derek? Are you alright?’  _

“I’m sorry, I’m here.” He replies quickly. “Alert the Imperial Council, and I want a member of the guard stationed with everyone’s meals from preparation to when it’s put on the table. We need to raise security measures.” 

_ ‘I’ll inform them myself.’  _

“Thank you.”

_ ‘Is he okay?’  _

“No, but he will be. We got lucky this time.”

**-Ω-**

With Erica occupied with the campaign against the Imperial Security Act, Isaac holds the evening’s press conference in the palace briefing room. It is, as he expected, a circus. The instant he’s walking out to the podium, the collection of reporters bursts into frantic questions, each trying to shout over one another.

“If you could all be quiet, I’ll be able to tell you what we know.” He says, and then waits the few moments it takes for the rabid reporters to calm down and retake their seats. “Thank you. Today, around 09:30, Sir Genim Stilinski was taken via helicopter to Pantheon Hospital, where he has been treated for aconite poisoning. We have strong reason to believe that this was a deliberate attempt on Sir Genim’s life. Luckily, the steadfast hands of the palace medical staff, along with the doctors and nurses at Pantheon were able to save him, and he is slated to make a full recovery. Sir Stilinski will remain in the hospital for the next few days until he is cleared to leave, and he was the only person affected by this horrid incident. I will now take a  _ few  _ questions, and would much appreciate it if you could do so in an orderly fashion.”

At once, the room breaks into a full roar again, and the beleaguered palace chief rolls his eyes. “Yeah, Jacques, CBC.” He dryly calls. 

“Given Sir Stilinski’s closeness to the emperor, could this have been an attempt on His Grace’s life?” The reporter asks. 

“No. Sir Genim very rarely takes breakfast with the emperor, and was not scheduled to meet with His Grace until much later in the day.” Isaac replies. “Martha, ABC.” 

“Are there any suspects in the poisoning?” 

He shakes his head. “I’m unable to disclose that at this time, but we have been able to clear a number of individuals. Milo,  _ Hungary Today.” _

“Given this latest attempt, is His Grace reconsidering his opposition to the Imperial Security Act?” 

“Absolutely not.” He emphasizes. “No provision in the ISA would have made a difference in this situation, as Versailles is under the sole purview of the Imperial Guard, and there are no changes to the function of the guard under the ISA. That bill and this near-tragedy are completely separate, and, like any good ruler, Emperor Derek is able to compartmentalize, and with the support of his staff, he is able to handle more than one thing at a time. His Grace is presently on his way back from Pantheon Hospital, however we have been in contact and coordination all day. Majid,  _ Damascus Post.”  _

“Do we have any updates on Sir Stilinski’s present condition?” 

Isaac nods. “Sir Genim is currently still in the ICU at Pantheon, where he will remain until he’s conscious and able to be moved, and he’ll stay in the hospital for observation until the staff there feel comfortable enough to discharge. His prognosis is described as excellent. Alright everybody, we have a lot more to deal with on our side of things, so I’m going to let you go.” 

Despite the sea of questions remaining, Isaac walks off, immediately filtering out the chatter of dozens of reporters as he leaves the press pool. Gods, he hopes this nightmare ends soon. 

**-Ω-**

Tuzla was a bust, because  _ of course it fucking was.  _ They rolled up to find the safehouse up in flames, and a quick outreach to an agent in the city confirmed someone had been hunting members of the CIS throughout Yugoslavia. Two hours later, that very agent is dead in a hit and run. Luckily, there’s a plan for just this, though it hasn’t yet been invoked, likely because the fools back in Paris think the situation is still in hand, but Kali knows better. 

In every major city in the country, there is a designated payphone near city hall that is under strict biometric lock, including a blood test for cortisol levels. Using this payphone, any agent of the Crown Intelligence Service or the Imperial Guard can alert their comrades that a certain area has been compromised, and to get everything the Hell out of Dodge. This is the Superposition Protocol. 

Forced to carry along the two idiots  _ cum  _ retired domestic terrorists, Kali resolves to invoke the protocol for all of Yugoslavia. It’s clear that the Vet has come to put them all down, and she won’t tolerate that. As they drive their way through Belgrade towards the Old Palace where the city government is seated, she keeps a watchful eye for snipers or anyone else of suspect. Finally, the pale tan stone of the building comes into sight, and she recognizes the dark blue phone booth only a few hundred feet from it. 

“Stay here, and keep your weapons hot. Deaton might be eyeing these booths. Inside the glove compartment there are instructions on what to do if I’m killed, got it?” She instructs, and the two young men nod. “Good.”

With her heart beating in her chest, Kali marches across the open quad around the building, waiting for a sniper’s bullet to tear through her body, but she makes it to the phone booth with its bulletproof glass, and sighs with deep relief when its door closes behind her. After collecting herself, the guardswoman rings in her own number, 5428748273.

At once, a small slot opens on the side of the phone, and Kali inserts her thumb into it, waiting for it to scan her fingerprint and take the blood sample needed. An affirmative  _ beep  _ comes from the console, and the line is picked up by headquarters instantly. 

_ ‘Identity, registry number, and protocol.’  _ The voice demands. 

“Kali Hypatia Amelios, 716-82-12463 Victor, Papa, Golf, Romeo, Charlie, protocol Superposition.” She says. 

_ ‘Area of effect?’ _

“Bosnia, Serbia, Croatia, Slovenia, Montenegro, Kosovo, Vojvodina.” 

_ ‘All of Yugoslavia?’  _

“Affirmative. We’re compromised, we need to regroup.” 

_ ‘Agent, this is…’  _

Kali snarls in annoyance. “I have no less than twelve dead agents that I know of. Situation is shit hot and out of hand.” 

_ ‘Affirmative. Invoking Superposition for Yugoslavia.’  _

Finally, they'll have a leg up on that cocksucker Deaton.

**-Ω-**

Two days later, Stiles is finally released from the hospital. Since Isaac’s press conference, a mass of well-wishers have gathered outside the property of Pantheon Hospital, and they let out a massive cheer as he’s wheeled out of the hospital doors by a member of the guard. He gives a tentative wave to the crowd, smiling shyly as he’s pushed to the car. Once there, he’s quite shocked to find none other than Derek waiting behind the tinted windows. 

The emperor holds a hand to help him into the vehicle, wearing a brilliant grin as he does. “Surprise.” 

Decorum and the press be godsdamned, Stiles grabs Derek in close and kisses him breathless. The crowd roars their approval, the flash of the cameras turns to a glittering sea of light, and neither of them even notice. When they break apart, the young monarch has a dumbstruck look on his face, which morphs into a brilliant smile. 

“If I’d known that I’d get that, I’d surprise you a lot more.” He says, still grinning goofily. 

Stiles rolls his eyes fondly. “Just get us back, you nerd.” 

When the motorcade is ready to roll out, Derek and Stiles are left alone in the back seat of the Mercedes, having put up the soundproofed privacy screen. They sit opposite one another, leaning in close to interlock their hands. 

“I’ve been thinking,” The emperor begins, “Maybe… maybe we should relocate. I’d love to take you to Scotland, to see my home, or there’s Verdala Palace in Malta we could go to.” 

Stiles is clearly confused by this. “Der, what? Why do you want to flee court?” 

“Because… it looks like whoever poisoned you, they’re a member of court. What’s to stop them from catching you in some dark corner, or slipping into your apartments at night, or- or-” 

“Hey, shh, none of that,” He says, raising a hand to his lips. “Look, we have a list of people we can trust, right? People who weren’t anywhere near me when the poisoning took place?” 

Derek nods. “Yeah. The first people we cleared were Lydia, Melissa, Scott, and your father.” 

“Then I’ll make sure I’m always with one of them, and we can post a guard. And…” 

“And?”

He hesitates for a moment, before taking a steadying breath. “There’s a guest chamber in your apartments, right? Maybe I could move my stuff into there, make it easier for us  _ both  _ to be protected.”

“How about we skip the pretense? Gods know the first night, we’ll both be sleeping in my bed, so let’s just out with it. Move in with me, Stiles.”

The young lord smiles broadly, before kissing Derek with passion and clear intent. “I’d be honored, Your Grace.” He teases.

**-Ω-**

The arrival back at Versailles is much more lowkey, with those closest to the couple greeting them in the main hall, before all of them walk together to Derek’s apartments, where a luncheon has been prepared for them. Just as they’re all sitting down for the casual affair, a guard pulls Isaac aside, who returns a moment later and whispers something to Derek. 

“Well, send her in. She’s more than welcome to join us, and everyone here is more than trustworthy.” He says.

The palace chief nods, vanishing and reappearing moments later, this time joined by none other than the Proconsul, who smiles at Stiles. “Sir Genim, it’s wonderful to see you. I apologize for not being able to visit you while you were in the hospital.” 

“Thank you, ma’am, and please, there’s no need to apologize. I can only imagine how busy everything is right now.” He responds. 

“Marin, we were just sitting for lunch. Please, grab a plate and join us.” Derek says, gesturing to one of the empty seats at the circular table they’ve settled around. “What can I do for you?” 

“I’m afraid I can only relay this information to you, Captain Boyd, and Mr. Lahey, Your Grace. I wouldn’t ask unless the nation’s security depended on it.” She says, looking apologetically towards the others. 

“We understand.” Lydia says, “We’ll wait outside until you’re able to have us all in.” She, along with Melissa, Scott, Stiles, John, and Erica all make their way out into Derek’s living area, and Boyd shuts the door behind them while Isaac pulls out a seat for Marin to sit down in.

The Proconsul snags a plate with a handful of finger sandwiches on it and sits down. “Your Grace, earlier today, Commander Amelios initiated the Superposition Protocol for all of Yugoslavia.” 

“I’m unfamiliar with that.” 

“It’s a protocol used by the CIS and Imperial Guard, designed to be invoked in times of crisis. Essentially, it’s a covert way of ringing the alarm to all intelligence assets that an area has been compromised. We’ve had three dozen agents and almost fifty assets and collaborators not respond, and at least twenty safehouses have been compromised.” She says, “We’ve lost complete situation control over Yugoslavia.” 

“I’m sorry, are you saying we can’t control an entire  _ kingdom?!”  _ Derek demands, now floored. 

Marin shakes her head. “Of course not, Derek. What I  _ am  _ saying is that our ability to act  _ covertly  _ is compromised. Every asset in the kingdom is getting the Hell out of Dodge and regrouping in Munich. I’ve spoken with Director Halasz, who is on his way in order to confer with the top agents, including Commander Amelios.” 

“What do we know about who’s responsible for this?” 

“Amelios has been transporting two contacts who’ve given her information, which she relayed directly to me. General Alan Deaton has apparently spent the last two decades building a covert force called the Dread Doctors, which does track with previous intelligence we’ve gotten regarding the group.” 

“How has someone been building a private army for  _ twenty years  _ and we haven’t stopped it?!” The emperor explodes, now standing up from his seat to pace furiously, running a hand through his hair. 

Morrell raises a hand, trying to pacify him. “The Dread Doctors were a ghost story, a jumped up shadow organization that’s simply lain in wait for orders from some unknown puppet master. We wrote it off as a false lead after we couldn’t turn up any evidence. It wasn’t until the informants of Amelios’ linked the group to Deaton that we could even confirm they existed.” 

“And where is Deaton? He’s still in command of Yugoslavia, surely we have eyes on him! Is an arrest being planned?” He demands. 

“Deaton failed to show up to his post this morning. We expect someone within Intel tipped him off that Superposition had been invoked, and he’s gone dark. A number of people close to him have also vanished.” 

Derek sighs, sitting back down at the table. “What a fucking joke. Well, what progress is being made about this leak?” 

The Proconsul gives her own frustrated sigh. “Little. There’s a relatively small group, less than a hundred, who are privy to information regarding the invocation of intelligence protocols before the assets are informed. There’s a thirty minute window between an agent’s invocation and the distribution of orders. Trying to get information regarding every one of these people’s whereabouts and actions during that period is proving… trying.” 

“Why? Shouldn’t having a shortlist of people and a time frame make it easier?” 

“Derek,” She explains, “These are some of the best covert actors on Earth, second only to the CIA. They are very skilled at covering their tracks, and do so habitually to protect themselves  _ and  _ the country. All of them may look suspicious, but that is because the nature of what they do demands it. Figuring out who was simply being careful and who was the mole will take time, and resources.” 

“Well, you’ve got what you need. I still have emergency powers, so I’m authorizing you to do whatever you have to in order to get the mole, and Deaton.” He says, “I’ll need you to confer with Speaker Deucalion and table the vote on removing the emergency powers.” 

The Proconsul nods. “Of course. There’s also the matter of the ISA. The vote is quickly coming up, and it may yet pass the Assembly and the Senate. The sweeping changes that bill promises will turn Crown Intel upside down, and may well empower our mole, and by extension, Deaton.” 

“I’ll veto the godsdamned thing and be done with it.” Derek spits, “Let the vote happen. Afterwards, I want you pull aside every Democrat in the Senate  _ and  _ Assembly that votes for it, and let them know that not only will they not be receiving funding from the Democratic Imperial Committee, you will be endorsing their primary opponents,  _ campaigning against them in their primaries,  _ and giving the funds to their opponents. If they survive, they’re on their own in the general election.” 

“That may cost us our majority, Your Grace. Do you truly wish to risk handing over the Proconsulship and the Speakership to the Conservatives?” She asks, now uncertain. 

“What I truly wish is to make sure that Jonathan Deucalion’s speakership ends after 2020. Do what you have to make it happen, damn the costs.” He instructs. “Is that all?”

“For the moment.” 

“Then, please, join us for lunch. I need to decompress after that.” 

**-Ω-**

That night, as Stiles settles in beside Derek in the bed they now share, he leans over, laying his head on the emperor’s chest. “Hey,” He whispers.

“Hey yourself.” Derek replies.

“Can be honest?” He asks, looking up at him. 

“Always.” 

He clears his throat, gazing into those kaleidoscopic eyes. “When I realized what was happening to me, I was terrified. For myself, for my dad, but most of all, for you. The thought of leaving you alone, of you having to grieve me after grieving so many other people, it was too much to bear.” 

“Stiles…” Derek begins, but the younger man holds his finger to his lips. 

“Der, I don’t want you to have to lose anyone else. There’s been enough death and carnage to last a lifetime. We’re lucky the empire hasn’t shattered into civil war, given what happened. My point is, life is short. We’re both in our early twenties, and we’re young and dumb and you’ve been a widower for all of four months, but I don’t give a good godsdamn.” 

He sits up, now gazing at Stiles with shock on his face. “What are you…?”

“Marry me, Derek Marcus Raphael Alexander Hale. Marry me and be done with it, because when I’m in a helicopter, seconds from dying from a poison that I was dosed with because of my connection to you, and it’s  _ you  _ that I’m worried about the most, I know this is real. You have pulled me into this whirlwind ride that is your reign, and I never want off of it. So, marry me.” 

All Derek can do is stare, slack jawed, before he pulls Stiles in close and kisses him like he’ll never kiss again. When he pulls back, he starts babbling into his betrothed’s ear as he nips at it, relishing the little gasps that come from it. “Fuck some grand thing at Notre Dame. I’m gonna grab my family, your dad, Marin, and a couple others, and we’re going to drive to some little temple to Aphrodite by the sea, and get married on an altar covered in roses and myrtle, while the temple doves fly all around us.” 

_ “Gods,  _ Derek,” Stiles moans, tangling his fingers through his lover’s thick black hair. “Come here.” 

Like that, he flips them over, so that Derek is on top of him. They rejoin in their kiss, and hardly break apart until Stiles goes down to that most intimate of places and presses his tongue against it, bringing the emperor apart at the seams. After opening him thoroughly with hand and mouth, he leans against the ancient headboard of the bed as Derek hovers over him, taking what feels like a lifetime to lower himself down onto his cock. 

When finally seated, he leans in close once again, and sets a gentle rhythm, moaning brokenly into Stiles’ mouth as he seeks out the angle that will bring him what he so desperately needs. Neither of them are virgins, though their respective social positions have made it difficult to accrue many partners, so it takes time and a few whispered directives for them to figure out what works best. Eventually, however, they find themselves in what feels like the perfect position, and Derek throws his head back to let out a throaty moan while Stiles curses under his breath, desperately trying to keep the whole thing from ending too quickly. 

Like everything else about him, the warm, vice-like grip of Derek feels like coming home. As the young ruler chases his own pleasure, Stiles lets his hands drift up to Derek’s waist, pulling him back in closer. He kisses him one last time, and breaks it off to groan violently, crying out Derek’s name as he releases inside of him. The emperor is seconds behind, finishing himself off and letting go across Stiles’ chest. 

In the aftermath, once they’ve cleaned up, Derek spoons himself around Stiles, kissing at the nape of his neck. “We’ll have to make the announcement tomorrow, you know.” 

“Your mother’s gonna kill me for not asking for her blessing.” He wryly replies. 

“I’m the emperor, I’m no one’s to give away but my own.”

“Still rude to propose without asking.” 

Derek smiles sleepily. “Those are problems for tomorrow. For now, sleep.” 

“So sayeth His Grace.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there it is, the most and least romantic proposal of all time. "Hey, being around you is a danger to my life, let's get hitched!" On a more serious note, let me know what you thought. The threads are finally beginning to wind together. Also, yes, I've let slip a bit on the religion surrounding this world, I couldn't be vague and simply refer to "the Gods" forever. Next chapter, Derek meets an ancient adversary, Kali starts to really run the show, the vote on the ISA, and a conference between Kate and Deaton lets the reader know some stunning information.


	13. Interlude II - The Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A blast to the distant past shows us the time before the Silver Succession, and how the father of the Alexandrian Dynasty found the love of his life. No Sterek here, but some key exposition for the next chapter of the main story. These interludes are marking the "sections" of the story, so to speak, and I'm visualizing four parts to it, followed by an epilogue, which means one more interlude, in theory. Enjoy!

**1813**

“It’s hard not to feel as though I am being sent away to keep me out of sight, You- Father.” Alexander catches himself at the last second. All his life, he had believed his father to have been some nobody, a peasant his mother had engaged for a night of pleasure and left aside the next morn. Then, two months ago, just after his seventeenth birthday, the man across from him appeared at their humble keep near Monaco, revealing the truth. _ He _was Alex’s father, and he wished to bring him home. 

All his life, Alexander had believed he was the result of an indiscretion, and that he would never know his father. Instead, his father sat before him on a couch in the palace. His father, the Emperor Philip III. 

His father shakes his head vehemently. “Alexander, son, I am sending you because I trust you. We know nothing of this land, not even its name. The Mauryans spit and snarl, only to call them the Great Northern Enemy. The Bangladesh shrug and call it the Northern Plateau, the Chinese refer to it as Xizang. I am sending you as a diplomatic representative not just of our empire, but of the whole League.” 

“Why not Philip? He _ is _the Crown Prince, after all.” Alex queries. 

“No, your brother must stay here with your sickly father. Should I pass, he must be here to take the crown. You must venture to distant lands and return to us with information upon them. I send you not out of punishment, but out of faith. You are truly the best of us, my son, and I trust you. I will wait every day for you to come home to us, but I know you can do this.” 

The recently-legitimized prince, older than his siblings but still excluded from the succession, bows to his father, feeling better. “I will do as I must.”

**-Ω-**

From Marseilles to Constantinople is five days, including a stopover at Messina. It is another nine days skirting the north coast of Arabia before they finally pass the Wakhan Peninsula in Afghanistan and are sailing just north of the Strait of Pakistan, bound for the unknown lands north of India. It takes two more days before they find themselves confronted by a fleet of massive ships that dwarf the Carolingian expedition’s near the mouth of a river. In the distance, a coastal town sits on the shores, with smaller ships dancing elegantly along its placid shores. 

Alexander, dressed in his finest, looks up, and sees the banners of the empire, the League, and the Peace Goddess all flying proudly from his ships. He can only hope that the fleet of great ships, _ junks, _his mind supplies him, understand the message. 

“Swords away, men!” He bellows to his crew. “We want to make it clear we’re here peacefully!” 

“Aye, Your Grace!” Several members reply. 

Alexander turns to the captain of the ship, Admiral Mariposa Nunes. “Thoughts, Admiral?” He asks as the flagship of the strange fleet ventures towards them.

“I’ve gotten much more hostile receptions. Usually involving Greek fire and cannons.” She replies. “I suggest we prepare to parley with them, Your Grace.” 

“Is my crown on straight?”

“Yes, it is.” 

The minutes tick by until the massive junk ship is directly across from their starboard side. Finally, a voice calls from nearly three stories up on the great ship’s deck. “Permission to come aboard?!” It yells.

“Permission granted!” The prince cries back. 

At once, a great ladder descends down off the deck of the ship. Two members of the crew run to grab it, quickly stabilizing the thing as it blows in the stiff coastal winds. Several men descend, and Alexander is immediately fascinated by their features. Alex has seen men and women from as far as Murmansk, Afghanistan, and the Congo, but he has never met an actual Asian, only seen drawings of them, and even those did not illustrate the luster of their tanned skin, nor how features many sailors have called identical are actually incredibly diverse.

A man, the most finely dressed, and clearly the leader of the party steps forward, his middle-aged face hardened with disciple. “I am Admiral Namdak Pema, Commander of the Lady’s Coastal Navies.” 

“My name is Alexander Renaldi Hale, Prince of the Empire of Carolingia. I come as a representative of my father, Emperor Philip Hale III, and of the Delian League.” He replies.

“I am familiar with the spiral flag and the banner of your western peace goddess, but I do not recognize the winged triangle you fly.” The admiral comments. 

Alexander looks up at the flags over the sails. “It is the Winged Delta, the symbol for the Delian League.” 

“The great alliance of states in the west.” He replies. 

“You are remarkably learned of our ways for being a nation of whom we know virtually nothing.” The prince comments. 

“We are the watchers. Now, are all the members of your diplomatic envoy aboard this ship?” 

Alex nods. “They are.” 

“Your supply ships shall remain at port, and I will escort you to the capital. It is many miles inland by river, but we can get there in less than a day, should conditions prove favorable.” Admiral Pema advises. “You are the first delegation to come to our capital in many centuries, and I invite you only because you fly your sacred banner of peace. Know this, Prince, should you or your people behave inappropriately, or should the Lady not wish to meet with you, you shall be expelled from our land at once.” 

“I understand, Admiral.” He replies. “I thank you for the chance to represent my people before your Lady.” 

At once, Pema and his men snap to attention, and his voice becomes formal. “On behalf of Yangchen Gyatso, Dalai Lama and Lady of the Plateau, I welcome you to the State of Tibet.” 

**-Ω-**

Once they have traveled far inland, to the very heart of Tibet and its capital city of Lhasa, they are made to remain parked at the docks, and many people wander by the riverside to take in the strange ship that has entered their city. Taking the time to be productive, Alexander composes a letter to his father, and sends it by hawk back to Paris. With some luck, the bird won’t take more than a week to reach home, by which point he will hopefully be treating with this mysterious Dalai Lama.

Sure enough, not two hours later, Admiral Pema returns, this time trailed by men dressed in brilliant and elaborate red and gold armor, carrying large, very sharp looking blades. He boards the ship and bows to Alexander. 

“Your Grace.” He says, “I have been asked to extend the most warm greetings of the Lady Yangchen Gyatso to her lands. The Lama would treat with you in her residence of Potala Palace.” 

Alex smiles, he had hoped for this. “I would be honored to meet with the Lady of the Plateau.” 

They are led off of the ship by the guard and walk through the busy streets of Lhasa. Everywhere they go, people stop and stare. Their unusual clothes and strange features stand out far more than they should like. A curious child, a girl of no more than four or five, runs directly up to the prince, stopping in front of him and gazing up in wonder. Alexander crouches down, meeting her at eye level. 

“Hello.” He says, smiling and curling his fingers in a childish wave. “What’s your name?” 

“K-Karma.” The little girl softly says. 

“My name is Alex. I like your dress, Karma, it’s very pretty.” 

She blushes and grins. “Thank you.” 

Then, the girl’s mother rushes over, grabbing her child’s hand and apologizing profusely. 

“There’s no need, I assure you. You have a lovely daughter, ma’am.” He says.

“Oh, thank you, sir.” She replies. “Come, sweetheart, let our guests be.” The mother instructs, leading her child back into the crowd of watchers, and the procession moves on.

Eventually, they come up to the bottom of a great mount, and built into the red stone is the Potala Palace. Easily twice as high as Versailles, though not nearly as sprawling, the massive red and white fortress is decorated by thousands of colorful flags, including two absolutely _ enormous _banners depicting a man dressed in humble red robes meditating. 

“That is the Buddha.” Pema explains when asked. “He was the first to reach enlightenment, and was our great teacher. His teachings inform our spiritual and physical lives, and he is the father of our civilization.” 

Admiral Nunes speaks up. “Did he found Tibet?” 

Her counterpart shakes his head. “No, but it is his philosophy upon which we have built ourselves. The Dalai Lama is more than a monarch, they are our spiritual leader.” 

The inside of Potala Palace is every bit as richly decorated as its exterior. It seems that every surface is covered in a rainbow of colors and tapestries, and thousands of murals depict what must be just about every event in all of Tibetan history. The young prince remarks on the alien beauty of the space, only for a delicate, decidedly feminine laugh to echo through the long hallway. 

The group turns around, and the Tibetans escorting the delegation immediately drop to one knee in a deep bow. The Carolingians quickly rush to do the same, drawing more laughter from the woman approaching them. She holds out a hand, smiling down at Alex. 

“You must Prince Alexander Hale,” She says warmly, “I am Yangchen Gyatso, Dalai Lama of Tibet and Lady of the Plateau. I welcome you as the first foreigner in our capital city in nearly five hundred years.” 

Alex accepts the hand, bowing his head to the Dalai Lama. “I thank you, my lady. I come bearing the well wishes of my imperial father, His Grace, Philip III, Emperor of Carolingia.” 

Yangchen gestures for the two of them to walk together, and she leads him into a suite where a low table sits with a cast iron teapot and two small, intricately painted cups. “Please, sit,” She instructs, easing herself onto one of the cushions on the floor. “General Pema, if you would be so kind as to assist the Ambassador and the rest of His Grace’s delegation in finding lodging, as well as directing the servants to prepare an office space for them, I would be much indebted to you.” 

“Gladly, my lady.” Pema says, leading the others away and leaving the two royals completely alone, which Alexander remarks on. 

“You are strangely comfortable being alone with a stranger from a foreign country, my lady.” He says, rather uneasily.

The Lama chuckles. “And you are not. I am not afraid for my life, Your Grace, nor do I worry for what will become of my country after I am gone. It helps to know that you have effectively turned over half a dozen hostages that would guarantee your good behavior.” 

The young prince finally takes in the serene woman across from him. She is dressed in the same plain red and orange monastic robes as the other monks and nuns he’s seen throughout the complex. Her hair, however, is long, reaching her shoulders in subtle waves of black, punctuated by streaks of grey. Her face is unpainted, and she bears the marks of smile lines, but has aged quite well. Her robes concealed her figure before, but with her position pulling them taught, Alex can see that her shoulders are broad, and she is deceptively solid in her slight build. 

“Indeed, I did,” He responds. “However, I believe I have no reason to fear for their well-being. I come with nothing but pure intentions, and the reception we have received has been nothing but warm.” 

She grins, pouring them each a steaming cup of tea. “It does my heart well to hear that my country has made such an impression. However, I sense that idle curiosity does not compel you to come to such distant shores. After all, your lands are known to us as the Great Western Empire, and it must’ve taken weeks to arrive. One does not traverse the Siberian Sea on a whim.” 

Alex nods in concession. “We came in the hopes of understanding what causes you to inspire such hatred, and frankly, _ fear, _in your southern neighbors.”

A look of irritation passes across Yangchen’s face at the mention of the Mauryans. “Ah, yes, your… Delian League,” She mispronounces the word, “Has spent many centuries in on-and-off combat with the Hindi State. It was perhaps a matter of time before you heard of the_ ‘Great Northern Enemy.’ _I will speak plainly, young one. Tibet will not raise her armies in offense, only defense. If you came to persuade us to join you in an offensive war, I will have to politely decline.” 

“I’m not here to ask you to fight with us. All I ask is that you tell us _ how _to fight them.” He earnestly. “They want to seize Afghanistan, to control the Strait of Pakistan and strangle us by denying us trade. The south coast of Arabia is one of the busiest shipping areas in the world, and getting the west coast of China requires going north through the Strait. Losing that shipping lane would do untellable economic damage to Byzantium and Africa, and, by extension, the rest of the League.” 

The Dalai Lama sighs. “It has been some time since we last met the Hindus on the field of battle. Decades, in fact. That said, there are plenty of books in our libraries on strategy, and a number of generals from those days still live. My staff will coordinate with them to compile some measures of advice.” 

Alexander bows his head in gratitude. “You honor me, My Lady.” 

“For you to defeat the Hindi State on the field of battle would mean Tibet is secure. One of the first lessons that my father taught me when I was the Lama Presumptive is that all politics are transactional. That said, you came to us on a whisper of contempt from our enemies and nothing else, and offered yourself unarmed. That takes boldness, and I honor that boldness. I wish your Delian League well in the wars to come, and I invite you to stay in my home for a period, that we may know one another. I will consult with my advisers and prepare an ambassador of my own to send to your father’s court.” 

They spend the rest of their discussion on lighter topics, until a servant enters the space to inform them that the welcome feast has been prepared. 

**-Ω-**

The Great Hall of Potala Palace is every bit as resplendent as the rest of it. The columns holding up the high, mural-covered ceiling are crimson red, and ornately carved dragons curl along the sides of them. Long tables, all of them neatly arranged in rows, are covered in food, ranging from roast ducks to delicate, sugar-covered pastries. Hundreds of people mill about the space in quiet conversation, many dressed in the monastic robes, while others wear intricate dresses and tunics of stunningly bright colors. 

In a tucked away corner, musicians play a gentle tune that is soothing, but quite alien to the ears of the Carolingians in the room, all of whom have gathered together near the head table, waiting for their hostess to arrive. Suddenly, a hush falls over the hall, and the massive doors at the far end open. 

The Lama strides into the room, smiling and waving at various members of her court. Behind her is a young man, perhaps only a year or two older than Alexander, not yet even twenty. He wears a dark red tunic, and loose golden trousers. Trailing after the man is a boy and girl, walking side by side. The girl’s hair is shorter than Yangchen’s, arranged in loose curls to the length of her jaw, and her brilliant yellow robes are carefully folded to expose one shoulder.

The boy next to her, however, is what has Prince Alexander’s attention. He wears a similar garb to the one next him, presumably his sister, only his is the same burgundy as his brother’s, with pieces of orange fabric folded into it. His hair is the shortest out of all of them, just slightly longer than the buzz the monks and nuns wear, and, for want of a better superlative, he is _ beautiful. _He makes Alex’s mouth run dry. 

Yangchen and her children stop before them, bowing deeply in a show of reverence to their guests, which the Carolingian delegation returns. “May I present my three children? This is my oldest, the Lama Presumptive, Tseten, who is nineteen, then there is Tashi, who is sixteen, and my youngest, Tenzin, who is fourteen.” 

Swallowing the sudden case of nerves, Alex manages to find his tongue and speak without tripping up. “It’s a pleasure to meet all of you. I am Alexander Renaldi Hale, Prince of Carolingia, and with me is our Ambassador to your kingdom, the Lord Milo Kovacs, and the commander of the fleet who brought us, Admiral Mariposa Nunes. Thank you all for hosting us so graciously.” 

The eldest of the three Gyatso children holds out his hand. “The pleasure is ours, Your Grace. You are the first foreigners to lay eyes on our capital in more than five hundred years.” 

“Please, call me Alex, my Lord.” 

“You may call me Tseten. We are friendly men of equal standing.” He replies. 

“I am not Crown Prince, that honor belongs to my brother. _ He _will succeed our father to the throne, not me.” Alex explains. 

Tseten nods knowingly. “I see. Nonetheless, I insist you use my given name.” 

They all sit for the wonderful meal after more introductions, and all the while, the prince’s thoughts are drawn to the young man down the table from him. As the guest of honor, Alex sits to the left of the Dalai Lama, flanked by Ambassador Kovacs and Admiral Nunes, and to the right of Yangchen are her children, ranked from eldest to youngest. 

The conversation is easy and pleasant, and once the courses of the meals have passed, the Lama gestures for her servants to open the doors to the balconies outside in order to let in some of the cool night air, and the room breaks back into groups to socialize and dance. After being led by Yangchen in a dance, Alex finds himself sipping a curious alcoholic beverage called Ara, served hot and diluted with butter while he sits alone, watching as the two admirals, Pema and Mariposa, whirl in a spirited dance. 

“Would you care to join me on the balcony? The stars are lovely tonight.” 

The voice that breaks next to him is incredibly soft-spoken, and yet distinctly seared in his brain already, just from a few words of pleasantries exchanged earlies. Tenzin. With the sensation of butterflies beating against the walls of his stomach, Alexander looks up to find the younger teenager smiling at him. He’s helpless but to smile back, and the two head out to view the stars together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone's particularly interested, yes, we will see the War of the Silver Succession eventually, but maybe not the way you expect it. Next chapter, we're back to the main story. An engagement announced, a summit held, a motive revealed.


	14. The Prince and the Consul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember how I said I was going on hiatus? Yeah, I said that, and then I couldn't write anything _but_ this. She's a long bitch, and I had to push the meeting with the aforementioned ancient enemy to next chapter, which is gonna be a fuckin' doozy. Hold on tight, kids.

Sunlight drifts through the large windows of the Baroque style into the bedroom of Derek’s royal apartments, and as he dozes with the warmth of the sun pooling on his back and the warmth of Stiles beneath him, he’s grateful that the old practice of the levee fell out of style sometime during the reign of Marie I. A sudden intake of breath alerts the emperor that his soon-to-be consort has awoken.

“Good morning.” He mutters into Stiles’ skin, still not opening his eyes. “How’d you sleep?”

“Had the oddest dream.” 

Derek smiles sleepily, already hearing the joke in his voice. “Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah,” Stiles says, “That me, a landless noble from a minor city, got engaged to His Grace, the Emperor of Carolingia, and King of Francia, Scotland, Ire-”

“If you finish that six mile long list of titles, I swear on Olympus I’ll tell Lydia before you do.” He threatens. 

“You wouldn’t.” 

The Emperor lifts his head from where it rests on his fiancé’s shoulder, leveling a dull glare at him that leaves no room for doubt about how serious he is. Stiles, damn him, just laughs. “Those eyebrows are cocked and set to kill, aren’t they, Sourcrown?” 

_ “Sourcrown?”  _ Derek repeats incredulously. “Did Laura tell you what she used to call me?” 

He shrugs innocently. “Laura tells me lots of stuff.” 

“Godsdamn her.” He snarls. “Anyway, we’re gonna have to tell a lot of people before we make the formal announcement. I’ll take care of Isaac, Erica, Boyd, Morrell, and the Council if you don’t mind covering the rest of court?” 

“That’s fine, but what about our families?” Stiles asks. 

“I figured we’d tell them together, and then we can record a video announcement to go out on social media alongside the press release.” He answers. “How about we grab your father and my family and tell them over lunch?” 

The future consort nods, smiling. “I still can’t believe we’re engaged. I don’t even have a ring, I just… asked. It felt right.” 

“I don’t care about a ring, Stiles.” Derek replies, sitting up in bed and kissing him. “What I care about is us. If it makes you feel better, I’ll give you free reign to go down to the vaults and pick out rings for each of us from the crown jewels.” 

“I don’t care about rings, either. I just want to do all this right, y’know? So much of this reign has been  _ ad hoc  _ and acting this, that, and the other that a lot of the traditions have gotten lost, and we need every bit of legitimacy we can get.” He says. 

“Rings don’t make a marriage, or even an engagement legitimate. Love and commitment make them legitimate, and I’d say we have plenty of both.” 

Stiles pulls Derek in for a searing kiss. “I knew there was a reason I loved you as much as I do. You always know just what to say.” 

He laughs, chasing his lover’s lips with chaste kisses. “Most of that’s just Erica’s speechwriting.” 

**-Ω-**

Derek’s morning security briefing comes and goes with little of interest. The Crown Intelligence Service is gathering tomorrow in Munich to coordinate their plans for dealing with the Dread Doctors, and still there is neither hide nor hair of Alan Deaton to be found. The other, more mundane aspects of the briefing, such as the standard terror threats coming from South America and the ongoing trade dispute with Indonesia are, for once, what has his attention more than the Sword of Damocles that seems to be hovering over his crown. 

Once the brief is done, Erica sweeps into the room, holding a genuine letter, completely unopened. On the back of the envelope, in delicate cursive writing, is addressed  _ His Grace, the Emperor of Carolingia.  _ Turning it over, Derek takes note of the red seal, and recognizes the emblem pressed into the wax. Three lions standing on a cylindrical base, the emblem of the Mauryans. 

“It came this morning, directly from New Delhi to the embassy in the city.” She says. “Scans cleared it.” 

He nods. “Better get on with it.” With that, he opens the handwritten letter, and begins to read aloud. 

_ “Your Grace, I write this letter directly to you that I may invite you to a summit on neutral ground in the United Republics of Bengal, on the first of November at Kolkata. Our nations have spent the better part of a thousand years antagonizing one another, and given that we are both young and new to our reigns, I pray that perhaps this dialogue may be the first step in normalizing relations. I hope you are well, and that we will meet in person at the summit. Yours, Her Imperial Majesty, the Maharani of India and Empress of Maurya, Mirai IV Devanampriya.”  _

Erica purses her lips. “This is… unprecedented. The last time a Maharaja and an Emperor met was Ashoka XVI and Philip III after the Sixth Himayalan War. That was 1813.” 

“What do you think the odds are that she's sincere?” Derek asks. “There have been overtures made before, and they usually turned out to be either full of ridiculous demands or just plain bad faith negotiations.” 

“Well, I did do some research on her when we suspected the Mauryans,” She says, sitting across from him, “Mirai Devanampriya came to power two years ago when she was just seventeen after the Rajya Sabha deposed her father and older brother for stealing almost a billion rupees from the treasury to fund lavish purchases. She first attended the Spence School in New York until eighth grade, when she transferred to the Thacher School in Ojai, California for high school, which she graduated a year early from.”

“Smart girl,” Derek murmurs. “What else?”

“Shortly thereafter, she became Empress. Since then, she’s spent her reign squabbling with the Parliament and supposedly trying to root out the corrupt aspects of the nobility, which hasn’t earned her many friends. Apparently, the Americans instilled in her a fondness for human rights that seems to have irritated the Mauryans’ allies.” 

The emperor leans back in his chair, looking deep in thought. “The first is only two weeks away. When’s the ISA vote scheduled?” 

“The twenty-eighth. Any revised bill will take at least a week to circulate its way back through the committees and to floor votes, even if they run the introductions simultaneously.” Erica answers. “You want to go?” 

“It’s neutral ground,” Derek reasons. “We’ve never had anything but good relations with the Bengali Republics, and it’ll be a pretty well publicized event, plus it’ll send a message that we don’t have to fall back into the same ancient alliances every time there’s a squabble. I guess I just have to ask, do you think it’s worth it?” 

Erica considers for a moment, and then nods. “I think it’s worth a try.” 

With that, Derek pulls out a blank letterhead and puts pen to paper in his own blocky handwriting.  _ ‘Your Imperial Majesty,’  _ He begins,  _ ‘I humbly accept your invitation to the summit at Kolkata on the first of November, 2019. It has been two hundred years since the monarchs of our empires have met face-to-face, and for two nations that have had three wars in that interim, one as recent as 1995, that is unacceptable. The first step to changing the world begins in reaching out, and I thank you for doing so. I look forward to our meeting. Yours, His Grace, Derek Marcus Raphael Alexander Hale, Emperor of Carolingia, King of Francia et al, Consul of the Senate, etc., King of Scots, Rí na Gaeilge, Prince of Wales, Grand Duke of Luxembourg, Kaiser of Germania, Imperator Italica, Regent Yugoslavia, and Consort Emeritus.’  _ He signs underneath his litany of titles with his initials, DMRAH. 

“Take that to the mail office to be given the imperial seal and see to it the letter reaches our embassy in New Delhi as soon as possible, please.” He instructs Erica, who nods and smiles encouragingly at him.

“Of course, Your Grace.” She replies. “Oh, Isaac wanted to know when he could see you this morning?”

Derek stands from his desk. “I’ll go to his office. It’s been awhile since I’ve been down to the offices to see the staffers. Thanks, Erica.”

“You got it, boss.” 

**-Ω-**

Under Isaac’s purview as Chief of Staff is a small but extremely capable set of apartisan advisors, many of whose careers stretch back through multiple proconsulships, both Democratic and Conservative, as well as the noteworthy four year tenure of the Irish Socialist Proconsul Kathy McGuire in the 1980’s. This collection of advisors, officially forming the Office of the Crown Advisory, and more commonly referred to as  _ “the Bullpen”,  _ is the oldest facet of Carolingian government, stretching back to before the Carolingian Revolution, when they formed the French King’s privy council. 

As Emperor, Derek rarely has the time in his schedule to visit the Bullpen, though he sees all of the advisors and their staffers routinely throughout his daily briefings. Today, however, is one of the few days in which most of his schedule is clear, and he enjoys seeing the palace staff as much as possible. He exchanges greetings with various staffers as he heads down to the impressive space that is the office of the Chief of Staff of Versailles, knocking on Isaac’s door. 

_ “Come in.”  _ Isaac calls from behind the heavy wooden door.

Derek slips in, and smiles at his closest advisor. “Surprise.” 

“Hey, what brings you down here?” He asks, “I was planning on seeing you as soon as you had a moment.” 

“Schedule’s pretty empty for once, so I figured I’d come down to visit. What did you need of your illustrious Emperor?” 

“For him to tone down to egomania.” Isaac deadpans. “And to deliver him some wonderful news.” 

The young ruler raises his brow in curiosity. “Oh?” 

“You will be very pleased to hear that a certain Madame Lafayette-Delacour has returned to her post.”

A kilometer-wide grin breaks across Derek’s face in an instant. “Braeden’s back from her leave?!” 

“Go see her.” Isaac instructs, smiling widely himself. 

Because it is improper for an emperor to sprint through the halls of his palace, he does not do so, but he  _ does  _ walk with a brisk pace and a decided sense of determination to the office door labeled  _ Director of Palace Hospitality.  _ After knocking and receiving permission to enter, Derek enters the smaller, but still grand space, and takes in the sight of the woman who prepared him for his intended role as consort. 

Braeden is every bit as lovely as when he last saw her, and she is dressed in a tight burgundy turtleneck dress. When she looks up, her eyes widen in shock before she stands up so sharply that she nearly knocks over her chair, and bows her head in the presence of the Emperor.

“Your Grace, I-” 

Derek rolls his eyes. “Braeden, seriously? Come on, it’s  _ me,  _ Derek. Cut the formality.” 

She looks up at him, and after a tenuous moment of studying his face, she smiles widely, and approaches to pull him into a tight hug, which he gladly reciprocates. “I’m  _ so sorry  _ I couldn’t visit you in the hospital.” 

“Oh, shut it. You’ve been way too busy to see an over-glorified maître d'. I’m so damned proud of what you’ve been doing.” She replies. “Besides, it was only touch and go for an hour or two, I was fine after that.” 

“You were comatose for a month, Brae. That’s not fine.” He says. “The glass almost cut your throat!” 

“Almost only counts in horseshoes, hand grenades, and nuclear warfare.” Braeden intones. 

Derek chuckles blearily, blinking back tears. “We ended our nuclear program in the Eighties, there’s no almost in that anymore.”

The two sit and catch up for a good long while after that. Madame Braeden Lafayette-Delacour, as Director of Palace Hospitality, has coordinated almost every event the Palace of Versailles has held for the last five years since she took to the post. The director also has a second set of duties, acting as Chief of Staff for the consort of the empire, since they enjoy the official status as host of the palace. 

Throughout Derek’s engagement, it was Braeden who prepared him on how to behave, present himself, and coordinate events in his course as Emperor Consort. She taught him the ways of court, and how to properly receive visiting diplomats. In many ways, she became his closest friend and most trusted tutor in the complex process of becoming the husband of the Emperor. That dreadful night of the twenty-third of May, she had been in charge of coordinating the wedding reception at Alexander’s Hall. Fate found her on the same back mezzanine as the late Prince Michael, and when the bombing happened, shards of glass embedded themselves in Braeden’s throat. 

It was only because she had the sense not to remove them herself that she  _ just  _ managed to avoid bleeding out. Nonetheless, Braeden was comatose for twenty-nine days after the bombing, and then took the next five months off to properly heal from the ordeal. At long last, however, the Direct of Palace Hospitality has come back to Versailles. 

“I have news,” Derek says once the conversation lulls, “You’re going to hate me for it.” 

“Unless you’re declaring that florals are out and geometric is in and demanding a redecoration of the whole palace, I could never.” She promises. “What is this news that’s so awful?”

He smiles, a blush painting his entire face. “It’s not awful, it’s… it’s  _ so wonderful,  _ for me at least.” 

At once, understanding flashes into Braeden’s eyes. “My first day back,” She begins, a little choked up. “And you’re making me plan a wedding.” 

“Yeah, I am. As of last night, I am officially engaged to Sir Genim Stilinski of San Marino.” 

“Oh, the two shades of blue are going to be  _ darling!”  _ She declares. “I’ll need to contact the Crown Trust to get an order placed for his consort’s crown, and of course, we’ll need to start on the guest list, and, oh Gods, how soon do you want to do this, because Alexander’s Hall is nowhere near ready and-”

“Braeden!” He interrupts, raising a hand to silence her, “I’m happy to wait until the Hall is complete for the wedding. I’d like some time to just enjoy being engaged before I’m married off again. Anyway, you’re actually the first person I’ve told. We have plans for our family and friends before we make the public announcement later.” 

She takes a steadying breath, wiping away her joyful tears and nodding. “I wanna meet him. If I’m going to be his Chief of Staff, I want to meet him, so I can get a glimpse of what I’m working with. If training you on the finer points of hosting for a palace taught me anything, it’s that you need a damned good early start on the job.” 

**-Ω-**

“It’s about time.” Lydia deadpans before breaking into a brilliant smile, and before Stiles can even blink, she and Scott are pulling him into a bone-crushing hug. “Genim Daniel Hale, Emperor Consort and Lord of Carolingia.” She says, testing the title on her tongue.

“He’ll be King Stiles, and we all know it.” Scott throws in, still not releasing from the hug. 

Stiles chuckles. “He’s right. I’ve been Stiles since… shit, as long as I can remember.” 

They sit down together at the breakfast table in Lydia’s apartments, which are every bit as spacious as those of the emperor’s. House Martin’s space in Versailles has always been a bit grander than those of the other Great Houses, as a reminder that Scotland was the only kingdom to enter the empire willingly, and as such, Scotland in general and its ruling families in particular have always enjoyed a bit of favoritism from the Crown.

“You’ll need to pick out your entourage once you’re married,” She says in her melodic lowland accent, “And it can’t be Scott and I. The Lords and Ladies-in-Waiting of the Consort are meant to be members of minor houses, usually sending a message about the intent of the reign of the crown. The sooner you start interviewing people, the better.” 

“What does the entourage even do?” He asks, now confused. 

“They’ll keep you company, escort you to and from events, some even act as the consort’s personal spies, keeping track of all manner of things. They’re basically there to keep any member of court you want nothing to do with away from you. Social protection.” Scott explains.

Lydia points her fork, laden with sausage, across at the heir to Iberia. “And sometimes physical protection. More than one consort has had their entourage double as their bodyguards. Queen Samira even brought in a cousin from Iraq who bore a strong resemblance and used her as a decoy when things got tense during the oil crisis of the Seventies.” 

“Well, as far as I know, I don’t have any cousins who look like me,” Stiles says, “And even if I did, they all live in Prussia, with the rest of my mother’s family.” 

“You never told me your mother was actually from Poland.” Scott intones. “I figured she was from San Marino.” 

He shakes his head. “Nope. My dad went to uni in Gdansk, which is where the Stilinskis actually came from, and he met my mom, who was the youngest from the Gajos family, the lords of Braunsberg.” 

“How is it that San Marino came to your family anyway?” Lydia cuts in, leaning over the table with a curious look on her face. 

“Ah, now  _ that  _ is a story.” Stiles replies. “It was 1492, the end of the Great Incursions. The armies of the Delian League had come back from sieges on their capitals and near-total defeat under the encroaching Italians, Andalusians, Baltians, and Transylvanians, and-”

“Yes, yes, we all know the history of the Great Incursions. Jane II personally slew Sultan Camran Osman al-Madrid in the Battle of Versailles, and she was a great hero, went on to conquer her enemies, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. Get to the part where a family from the shores of the Baltic Sea rules a key stopover in Central Italy.” She drones. 

Stiles leans back, playfully offended. “Some people have no sense of theatricality.  _ Anyway,  _ Mieczysław Stilinski and his wife Valeria were actually travelling performers living in Munich at the time of the start of the Incursions. Their entire troupe was slaughtered when the Italians razed the city, and so, like so many other people with nowhere to go, they became camp followers. As it so happens, they were followers of the army that would eventually march down the Italian peninsula.” 

“So they weren’t even soldiers?” Scott asks. “I’m not getting how they became the rulers of the city?” 

“I’m getting there, Scotty, I promise. So, the Italians were holding at the northern end of the peninsula in a line of fortifications that stretched from the Tyrhennian to the Adriatic. San Marino made up the easternmost of those forts, and it was the main focus of the assault because it would mean the Carolingians could encircle Rome, which itself was heavily defended at the borders of Lazio province. So, after months of siege, San Marino still wouldn’t fall.”

He pauses to take a bite of his breakfast before continuing. “Eventually, the general in charge of the assault decides he wants to send in a team over the walls to open one of the gates to let the army in so they could take the city and use it as a staging point for the whole invasion south of the peninsula. Problem was, nobody wanted to sign up for a suicide mission, until my ancestors revealed that before they became camp followers, they were  _ acrobats.”  _

“Oh, I see where this is going,” The other man now nods, understanding.

“Exactly. They snuck into the city, opened the eastern gate, and the army went flooding in, catching the garrison there completely off-guard. Things got a little hairy in taking the castle itself, and the Marina family, which had ruled the city, all of them got killed. Eventually, Jane II herself led the main invasion force through San Marino, and when she stopped there, she awarded it to Mieczysław and Valeria, whose descendants still rule it to this very day.” 

“Not for long. You said you don’t have any cousins on your dad’s side or siblings, so it’ll probably go to your second-born, who’ll be a Hale.” Lydia says. 

“Incorrect. I don’t have any cousins, but my grandfather was…  _ fond  _ of younger ladies. Before he died, he got his… I think fourth wife pregnant. My Uncle Giovani is five.” Stiles shoots back. 

She shudders. “Oh, that’s just gross.” 

“You’re telling me.” 

“I do have to wonder, however…” 

He raises a brow. “What’s that?”

“If you’ve shown Derek that Stilinski talent for acrobatics?” She smirks at him.

All three of them burst into laughter.

**-Ω-**

Telling their families is quite an affair that involves a great deal of tears of joy. The entirety of the Hales spare Laura have returned to Scotland, so the news is broken over video chat, with Laura and John in attendance in the room with Derek and Stiles. By the end of the conversation, Talia is blubbering happily into her husband’s shoulder, and even the ever-stoic Cora has shed a few tears of joy. The Hales promise to make it into Paris as soon as possible, and John proudly hugs both his son and his new fiancé. 

With everyone informed, Erica and Isaac, along with several Erica’s minions from Palace Comms, set up to record a video in the Hall of Mirrors for release on social media, while Braeden finally meets Stiles for the first time.

“Oh, you’re even more handsome in person!” She exclaims, striding through the room and coming up close. “It’s a pleasure, Your Grace.” 

Stiles raises his hands in a  _ whoa  _ gesture. “Uh, I’m not…”

“Technically, Stiles,” Derek interrupts, “You are. I chose not to adopt the titles usually given to a regent’s fiancé when I was with Diego.”

“And I am going to insist that you do, Your Grace.” Braeden says. “My name is Madame Braeden Lafayette-Delacour, Director of Palace Hospitality. I’m going to be your Chief of Staff, your wedding planner, and your guide in your role as Emperor Consort. Lesson number one, you are no longer Sir Stiles, you are now His Grace, Genim Daniel Stilinski, Prince pro tempore of Carolingia.” 

“Prince pro tempore?” He asks, incredulous. “What does that even mean?”

She sits down on the couch they’re to record their video announcement on, opening the binder she carried in with her. “Prince-slash-Princess pro tempore is the title granted to a regnant monarch’s betrothed. It came into style after the conquest of Italy, when Marie II married the second son of the former Imperator, Mario Raeken, and King Mario used the title during their lengthy engagement. It’s basically a means of elevating you to royal status in the eyes of the full court and the Senate.” 

“Okay, so I’m a prince? Or does the pro tempore mean I’m different?”

“You’re excluded from the succession, if that’s what you’re asking. However, in all other aspects, until your marriage, you are a prince.” She answers. “And, if, for whatever reason, you should decide to end the engagement, your formal title would be Lord Stilinski, Prince Emeritus. Oh, please, Your Grace, don’t look at me like that, I’m just informing him of protocol, the same as I did for you.” She directs the last part to Derek, who is scowling at her for mentioning the possibility of breaking the engagement. 

“Derek, Stiles,” Erica calls, “Wardrobe’s ready for you.” 

Walking into one of the rooms off of the hall, the two men find their outfits. Derek’s is a black suit, complete with the flag lapel pin, and the dress shirt underneath a plain white, but the tie is a brilliant robin’s egg blue. His crown sits on a bust nearby, glinting in the light. Stiles’ clothing, in contrast, is a Mandarin-style suit in royal blue, with silver trim, and a glistening Triskelion brooch over the heart. 

“You’ve got us in each other’s colors.” Stiles murmurs, running his hand over the fabric of his outfit with a gentle reverence. 

“That’s the idea.” The head of wardrobe answers. “His Grace’s is a bit more subdued, since he’s a widow and everything, but given you are not, we had a bit more leeway in design. The brooch is designed to show your commitment to the Crown and the people, and less to the political side of things.” He elaborates.

Isaac steps into the chamber, trusty tablet in hand, as per usual. “Once you two are dressed, we’ll get you into hair and makeup. After the video is done, Stiles, you have an appointment with the crown jeweler to design your consort crown. I understand he has a few designs ready for you to peruse.” 

“Got it.” Stiles replies, taking his outfit and heading for the privacy screen prepared for both of them. 

After dressing and doing through hair and makeup, the betrothed couple makes their way back out into the Hall of Mirrors, seating themselves on the loveseat prepared for them. Erica works her magic with her army of communications minions before assuming position and counting down to the recording. 

“Five, four, three…” She mouths the last two, and then they are filming.

“My fellow Carolingians, as many of you know, for the last four months, myself and Sir Genim Stilinski of San Marino have been courting one another,” Derek begins, putting on his most winning smile, “And it is my absolute pleasure to share the news that we have become engaged to be married. As per tradition, Genim has elected to take the title of Prince pro tempore, per his right as the betrothed of the sitting monarch. We wish to share this wonderful news with you, and I will now allow my fiancé to make a statement of his own.” Stiles shifts in his seat, clearly nervous, but he takes a steadying breath, and Derek tightens the grip on his hand to reassure him. When he speaks, it’s with clarity and confidence.

“Growing up in a place like San Marino, high above the countryside around it, one starts to feel isolated from the rest of the world, more like an observer than a participant. When my house was honored to host the Emperor himself, I didn’t know what to make of our new ruler. What I found was a man committed to service for his country and his people, a man with the love of Carolingia in his heart and without pretense in his dealings. I found a man who I was helpless but to think of as the most beautiful I had ever seen.” 

He pauses, his voice growing just a touch watery. “The more I spent with Derek, the more I found myself wanting his company. The terrible day that snipers fired upon us in the Palazzo Pubblico, I watched as he selflessly threw himself into the path of an assassin’s bullet to save the life of Captain Boyd of the Imperial Guard, and I know I was falling in love with him after even just a few short days. When he asked me to come to court with him, I couldn’t refuse. Now, I’ve had the honor to ask him for his hand in marriage, and he’s blessed me by granting it.”

“Now, more than ever,” Stiles continues, “We need unity. Our empire has been tested in ways it has never before faced, by an internal enemy which slips among the shadows and hides from the light. When faced with evil, we demonstrate good. When confronted by hatred, we defy it with love. When challenged by enemies, we defend each other to the last. It’s been said more than once that marriages have changed the course of history, and I pray that this one will, as well. I stand before you, my fellow Carolingians, ready to serve as your Emperor Consort, and I pledge to you my life, my fortune, and my sacred honor. I pledge to defend you until my very last.” 

Derek grins at him as he finishes his speech. If  _ that  _ doesn’t endear Stiles to the four hundred million people of Carolingia, nothing can. He squeezes his fiancé’s hand one more time, and then speaks to close out the video. 

“In these difficult times, we struggle to find moments to celebrate, and it is the hope of myself, Prince Genim, and the entirety of the Crown and its many civil servants that we can all celebrate this moment together. As such, I am announcing that the annual Winter Solstice Masquerade will double as our engagement ball, which will be held at Versailles. We look forward to celebrating this engagement with the nobility and the elected legislature. I thank you for your time, and ask for the blessings of our people upon our marriage. Good day, and may the Gods be with you.”

“ _ Aaaaaand…  _ we’re good!” Erica proclaims. “We’ll get that edited and up by lunch. Stiles, you’re heading to meet the crown jeweler, Derek, the Proconsul would like a meeting, seems there’s been a development on the front of the ISA.”

“Got it. Should I change?” Stiles asks. 

She shrugs. “Up to you. I’d wager you’ll be in something similar to that for the wedding, so if you want an idea of how you’ll look, leave it on.” 

**-Ω-**

The crown jeweler turns out to be a somewhat eccentric-looking old man named Sir Eren Gebhart. His office is located in the basement of the palace, actually inside the vault containing the crown jewels. For a vault, it’s every bit as richly designed as the rest of the place, with a high, buttressed ceiling and beautiful displays. 

“Usually,” Sir Gebhart says as they sit at a table in the heart of the vault, “The jewels are on display for the public down here, but, as you know, given the ongoing crises, the palace has been closed to visitors. Now, Your Grace, I’ve got nearly a dozen crowns made up for you already. They’re plastic, but they’ll be a good visual. We can also do a more original design, if you prefer. However, I wanted to ask you, before I show you anything, what it is you want your crown to project.” 

Stiles deliberates, trying to find the right words. “Well, I don’t know if I can really summarize it, but I want it to blend with Derek’s, and nothing too gaudy, but more stately, you know? Something that shows the Crown is united, and it’s here, and…” 

“Strength,” The older man interrupts, “You want to project calm strength. Just like His Grace.” 

“I guess?” 

He stands from the table, and returns balancing three white boxes atop one another, laying them out in a row before him, and he gestures to Stiles for him to open one. At random, he chooses the box furthest to the right, and pulls out a golden crown in the shape of a laurel wreath. Inlaid in the veins of the leaves is an alternating pattern of sapphire, aquamarine, and white diamond gemstones, each so small they are hard to discern, but cast distinct light. At the back, where the two wreaths are bound together, the “clasp” is a triskelion.

“Ah,  _ this  _ one I designed with your Italian heritage in mind. The laurel wreath was the traditional crown of the Italic Imperators and the Italian Emperors, and the aquamarine stones represent San Marino, but the diamonds and sapphires are distinctly Carolingian, as is the triskelion binding.” Gebhart intones. “Pick another.” 

The second crown, in the left box, is silver. This one is a two-headed eagle, and its wings spread to form the body of the crown. In the eagle’s eyes glint rubies, and the rachis of the feathers, like the veins of the laurel leaves, are inlaid with glinting sapphires. On the chest of the eagle is a shield, bearing only a triskele. “The Polish Eagle…” Stiles trails, gazing at it in wonder. 

“Very good. The rubies are for Poland, but the sapphires and triskelion show that the bird is undeniably Carolingian, just as you are, Your Grace.” He says. 

The third crown is different than the other two, a bronze-colored circlet with rectangular cut gems alternating in sapphires and white diamonds. It is plainer, lacking in any sort of decorative symbol. Frankly, it appeals to Stiles much more than the other two, but for one thing. 

Gebhart speaks again, “Now, if you had any special requests, we can certainly accommodate them. We offer unusual materials, as well. The grounds staff maintain samples of every flower in the palace year round, if you should desire to have a crown of woven flowers. I can also use driftwood or petrified wood, like Jane II’s regnal crown, I can even arrange for a crown or circlet made of stone, like King Tenzin’s. Other materials used have included meteoric iron, amethyst, quartz, there was even a crown made from coral for Queen Amelia during the Golden Dynasty.” 

“No,” Stiles says, shaking his head, “I’m liking this third one, though I did have a request. In the spaces between the gems, could you carve in the triskele and the Collins wolf in alternating patterns? Just etchings, nothing too fancy.” 

He nods, “It’ll be prepared within the week, Your Grace. I’ll just need to gather some measurements.”

With that, he grabs a length of measuring tape and begins to wrap it around Stiles’ head, and, for the first time, the full reality of what he’s gotten into becomes apparent. He’s going to be  _ King.  _

**-Ω-**

“Do you think you two can keep out of trouble for two hours?” Kali drones to the twins, who are splayed out on a couch in their freshly-secured Munich hotel room. 

“Can  _ you?”  _ Ethan charges. 

She shrugs. “Fair enough. No ordering room service while I’m gone.” 

“Yes,  _ mom!”  _ One of them calls as she strides out of the room, heading for the vehicle to take her to the Crown Intelligence Service’s secondary headquarters. 

The meeting is at one o’clock, and features the department heads for each branch of the CIS. On the car ride over, Kali spends the time preparing her notes and speech for the operation. Unfortunately, it’s far too short a ride, and she’s admittedly daunted by the idea of presenting before the director of the agency, along with his immediate underlings. 

She’s swept through security and into a conference room with a hemicircular table, and finds the seat reserved for her is the one immediately to the left of the Director Gabriel Valack. Not long after sitting down, Kali finds herself standing again as the Director of the Crown Intelligence Service strides into the room, a man closer to fifty than forty with a quiet air about him, one that is cerebral and calculating. He gestures for all them to sit and immediately hops into his briefing.

“Thank you all for assembling so quickly. As you know, three days ago, Commander Kali Amelios of the Imperial Guard invoked the Superposition Protocol for the entire Kingdom of Yugoslavia. Since then, we’ve conducted a full census of agents and assets lost, numbering at fifty-seven and two hundred and four respectively. We’ve also had several safehouses burn, as well as an attempted pipe bombing of an agency-owned building.” He begins, gesturing to a map of Yugoslavia on the screen behind him.

“We have reason to believe that these acts, alongside the 23 May bombings, are the work of General Alan Deaton, Supreme Commander of the Tenth Army, along with a network of covert actors referred to as the Dread Doctors, who have used the Yugoslavian Liberation Front as a puppet for a higher purpose. To brief you further, I’ll turn it over to Commander Amelios.” 

She stands, gathering her binder up and walking to the podium, nodding to Director Valack as he passes by on the way to her seat. “Thank you, Director Valack. Now, my asset, a former Ukrainian separatist turned informant codenamed Ethan, informed me of Deaton’s activities in Vienna. Several hours later, we were attacked by unknown forces in Langau, just south of the border with Polish Czechia. Luckily, myself, Ethan, and his twin brother, another former separatist codenamed Aiden, were able to escape.” 

Kali presses a button bringing up Deaton’s service record and an image of the general. “This is Alan Deaton. According to Ethan, and now corroborated by old evidence from the late Nineties, when Deaton was tasked with cleaning up the militant wing of the YLF, he secretly utilized members of that very organization as a means seizing covert power in the region, which he has maintained for the last two decades.”

“Now,” She continues, “With the assassination attempt on Prince Genim, we face three key questions. The first, and most pressing, is what is Deaton’s next step? The second, what’s his endgame? The third, and perhaps most difficult, is who else is he working with? It’s clear that his fingers reach as high as the Palace of Versailles itself.  _ No one  _ is above suspicion.” 

One of the department heads speaks up. “What  _ direct  _ connection is there between the YLF and Deaton? If he was the architect of the 23 May bombings, what proof is there?” 

“Of the four people who attacked us at the house in Langau, two were known YLF operatives.” She answers. “The others are presently unidentified, as their fingerprints were seared off, but we believe that they may have been part of other separatist movements. In fact, our belief is that Deaton may be seeking to consolidate the various antimonarchist and separatist factions under his command, possibly using the Group for the Carolingian Republic, better known as the Republican Group, as a vehicle.” 

Director Valack raises his hand, a question clear on his face. “Well, Commander, what would you suggest we do next?”

Kali smiles, realizing she’s gotten Valack on her side already. “I’m glad you asked, Director. Our immediate concern should be seeking out the stolen naval mines from CAF Lakenheath. Our instinct would be to protect the capital, however the Capital Legion is more than capable of maintaining situational control in the Ile-de-Carol. We should focus on other potential targets, likely within Britain itself. Getting that many explosives off the island would be… very difficult given heightened security at all seaports and airports in the empire. London, Edinburgh, Manchester, Aberdeen, Plymouth, Cardiff, Leicester, I believe these may be the most likely.”

“So you think they’re after provincial capitals?” He asks. 

“Partially, but also consider the potential economic damage done if these mines were to detonate. An entire  _ city  _ could be wiped out. Hundreds of thousands could die, no doubt, and the sociological damage would be immeasurable, however also consider how badly the global economy could be damaged by the loss of downtown London and the stock exchange there, or the potential for more localized damage by the loss of the Port of Cardiff or the Tech Highlands in Aberdeen.”

Valack nods. “Well, you heard the commander. Let’s start tracking those explosives.

**-Ω-**

Proconsul Marin Morrell’s office is much a reflection of her. It has an austere beauty to it, entirely professional in its nature, but with barely visible threads of warmth that shine to the women beneath; a photo of her parents, a framed graduation cap decorated in glitter that reads  _ NEXT STOP: PARIS,  _ and a hand-carved outline of the empire mounted on the wall. It’s here that Derek finds himself as he sits down. 

“I realized something not long ago, a way to make all of this stop.” Marin says, her back to him, looking out the window over the grounds of Vaugirard Palace, home of the Imperial Congress. “The ISA has cleared committee in both chambers, if only by a single vote in the Senate, but it hasn’t been put to a vote yet, meaning you have a window to act.” 

“How so?” He asks. “There’s a process here. It goes through one chamber, then the other, then to me.”

“A provision Alexander III put into the Constitution of 1817. One of your functions as emperor is Consul of the Senate, which, until 1817, was the only legislative body at the imperial level. As Consul, you retain the right to preside over the Senate, set its agenda, and schedule votes. The Proconsul, acting on your behalf, does all this. There’s a loophole, however, which allows you to call into session the whole of Congress and preside over it in a unified session as a single legislative body,  _ including  _ calling pending legislation which hasn’t been voted on by either chamber to a joint vote.” She explains.

“In theory, I could veto the act then and there.” He says. “That would give us time.” 

She nods. “Yes, and there’s another possibility. The last time the Congress as a whole assembled for a joint vote was the Telecommunications Act of 1996. It’s a very rarely used little loophole, though Alexander III used it frequently in the early days after the Silver Succession. Since both the Assembly and Senate are presently in session, you can call them for a unified session of Congress, and force the vote. In that case, the Act needs two hundred and ninety-five votes to pass between five hundred Assemblymembers and eighty-eight Senators. By the latest math, there’s a combined two hundred and ninety-seven votes for it. You could spook members off by doing something this radical, and the bill dies, then and there, and it has to go through the whole process all over again, or, if we’re lucky, Deucalion will finally come to the negotiating table.” 

“Good thing I wore my crown today.” Derek says, standing. “Alert the majordomos, it’s time for a Unified Session of Congress.”

**-Ω-**

Packing five hundred Assemblymembers and eighty-eight Senators into the Assembly Chamber isn’t easy, but it’s done, and the loud, anxious chatter filling the chamber as the events are broadcast over national television gives Derek a great deal of satisfaction. 

_ Good,  _ he thinks to himself,  _ they should be anxious. It’s time the Crown flexed some muscle. _

Marin, fully into the role of Proconsul and flanked by Speaker Deucalion, stands at the rostrum, banging her gavel to call the room to order. “The fifty-ninth Unified Session of the Congress of the Empire of Carolingia is hereby called to order. Presiding officer, His Grace, Derek Marcus Raphael Alexander Hale, Emperor of Carolingia and Consul of the Senate. All rise.” 

As the entirety of Congress goes quiet and stands to watch him, Derek strides down the center aisle, skirting to the left of the rostrum to scale it, and accepting the gavel from Morrell. He looks out at the sea of faces, their expression ranging from anxiety to defiance to approval. Taking a steadying breath, he slams the gavel against the unyielding wood of the rostrum. 

“Be seated, and please locate your voting devices. First order of business, the Congress shall hold a joint vote on Act 50-04, formally designated  _ An Act to Ensure the Security, Tranquility, and Continued Stability of the Empire of Carolingia,  _ shorthand designation, the Imperial Security Act. You will have fifteen minutes to vote.” 

At once, the room breaks into frenzied whispers, and one Assemblyman stands, bellowing out.  _ “Tyrant!”  _ He screams. 

“Members will conduct themselves appropriately, or they will be removed from the chamber.” Derek dryly intones. 

In the end, the vote fails, two ninety-three to two ninety-five.

**-Ω-**

In the privacy of her suite, Katherine Argent opens up the sleek surface of her Macbook, the custom OS springing to life after being authenticated by her fingerprint. It’s time for her scheduled check in with the one man who is her equal in this enterprise: General Alan Deaton. Sure enough, only seconds later, the secure video chat begins ringing, and she answers.

“General, you seem well.” She says, nodding to him. 

Deaton stares back at her blankly, with eyes that are completely void of emotion. He speaks with a monotone.  _ ‘I am fine, thank you, my lady. How are you?’  _

Kate shrugs. “Frustrated. You saw the blessed news that followed Stilinski surviving my little gift, I assume.” 

_ ‘Naturally. Nonetheless, progress is being made. Amelios invoked the Superposition protocol, as I expected she would. My man will be meeting with her in Munich soon enough.’  _ He says,  _ ‘What of your plans for the emperor?’  _

“I’ve little doubt he’ll soon cave. This scare with Stilinski will be quite a push for him to secure his reign, and I, as a lady of high standing at court, am certainly the best bet to carry the child of the emperor.” She intones. “My father is adding pressure on that front, and His Grace certainly seems to listen to him.” 

_ ‘It is well you mention your father,’  _ Deaton says, a note of intrigue now coloring his voice,  _ ‘You are in the great game now, Lady Argent, and we are enterprising to overthrow a fifteen hundred year old dynasty. I need to know why.’ _

The Englishwoman chuckles mirthlessly. “My dear General, we aren’t overthrowing a dynasty, we’re giving it its  _ rightful  _ ruler.” 

_ ‘I don’t understand your meaning.’  _

“My mother died birthing my stillborn younger brother, as you know. The pregnancy was terribly difficult, and she made certain… arrangements for herself, should she have passed, including a letter for me to be opened upon my twenty-first birthday. The time came, and when I read it, my blessed mum enlightened me to a few things.” 

Deaton’s expression morphs into open curiosity.  _ ‘Such as…?’  _ He trails. 

“That my father beat her senseless quite frequently, and that dear Christopher was the product of marital rape. More than that, however, she told me a story of a visitation to Scotland, and clandestine drinks with one Duke Jacob Collins of Alba, of a passionate night born from two loveless arranged marriages. Of a pregnancy that she  _ knew  _ could not be her fathead husband’s. Then, that old fool tells me the secret that led to the little plot of ours, of a bastard line of Hales, descended from another tryst in Alba near on a century ago, all the while unknowing that I was of that same line.” 

_ ‘Even if you are the child of Jacob Collins, you are younger than Talia, and she and her daughter both foreswore any claim to the throne in order to install Derek.’  _ He retorts.  _ ‘Your claim is invalid.’  _

Her smile becomes practically Chesire at this point. “Ah, but you see General, the vagueness of the edict caused the Imperial Council to take certain… measures of surety. You see, the phrase Emperor Leo used was, and I quote,  _ ‘All living heirs of Robert Collins shall take precedence in assuming the throne before the House of Hale-Gaulia.’  _ Given this, it was assumed that absolute age primogeniture applied, meaning that rather than defaulting to the senior line, the throne defaulted to the eldest living Collins. Talia Hale swore away her claim to the throne, and then, Peter did. Peter, who is my  _ younger  _ half-brother.” 

Understanding flashes in Deaton’s eyes.  _ ‘I see. By law, since you did not forswear your claim…’ _

“You are speaking to Her Grace, Katherine Elizabeth Marguerite Charlotte Hale,  _ rightful  _ Empress of Carolingia.” 

_ ‘So I am. What next… Your Grace?’ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Versailles falls.


	15. Government in Exile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Minor violence, major politics.

The studio lights are blinding, but not as blinding as the welcoming grin of the host of the Carolingian Broadcast Channel’s main evening slot. Erica settles into the elevated chair opposite the eponymous host of  _ CBC Tonight With Corey Bryant  _ for her second in-studio appearance, this one coming after Derek and Morrell’s little stunt caught the whole country off-guard.

“Here with me to discuss the impromptu Unified Session of Congress held this afternoon is Versailles’ Director of Communications, Erica Reyes. Erica, it’s lovely to see you again,” Corey says, flashing that too white, made-for-TV smile of his.

She angles her head in a graceful greeting towards him. “It’s lovely to be back, Corey.” 

“Obviously, today was an unprecedented usage of the power of the unified session. I was consulting with our research teams just before the show, and they could find no instance in two hundred and two years since we adopted the 1817 Constitution of a monarch calling Congress together to force a vote on a bill they stated would be vetoed should it reach their desk.” He says, “What do you have to say to those worried about overreach on the part of the Crown?”

Erica flashes her own winning smile. “Emperor Derek was using his constitutionally-granted rights as sovereign to get the necessary work done in order to craft an act which protects both the safety  _ and  _ rights of his citizens. In the past, when a regent has indicated they would veto certain legislation, the Congress has almost always ended up abandoning those acts in order to avoid conflict with the monarchy. For them to insist on forcing through such a controversial act, one without imperial support, it broke with two centuries of tradition.” 

“Be that as it may,” Corey continues, “Is the Crown not concerned that this could ruin relations between Versailles and Vaugirard, if only for the remainder of the session?” 

“Not in the least. Once His Grace is returned from the upcoming summit with the Empress of Maurya, he intends to call a meeting at Versailles with the heads of every committee in both the Assembly and Senate in order to begin the process of crafting a new version of the ISA and to set the path for better relations between the legislature and the executive.” 

“I’m so glad you brought up the Kolkata Summit, that was my next question. Polls show public opinion is split on the meeting, with only a small percentage of people undecided. Is it really a good idea for us to be meeting with a country whom we’ve spent the last millenium fighting with at a time like this?” He asks. 

She nods. “What better time? We need to build stability in this country, and though we’ve been at nominal peace with Maurya since the Kashmir War, there’s been more than one close call. The Gulf of Khyber incident in 2017 is just the latest in a string of miscommunications and military engagements that had the potential to lead to another war. Now, no one is saying we bring Maurya into the League, just that we have the chance to build something better than what we’ve done for the last thousand years. His Grace wants to be a different kind of emperor, and his treatment of our relations with the second most populous country on Earth needs to be a part of that. Six hundred million people live in Maurya, and we can no longer pretend that they aren’t a part of the global economy, or that we can come marching down the mountains of Tibet for a  _ fifth  _ time to subjugate an entire nation.” 

“Perhaps you’re right, Erica,” Corey nods, “Maybe we need a different approach. On the other hand, maybe now isn’t the time.” 

“No time like today, Corey.” She replies, smiling wide at him once again. 

**-Ω-**

Kolkata is  _ hot.  _ Hotter than the fires of Tartarus, in fact. Zeus could’ve cast His father here and gotten an even crueler torture for him, frankly, because not only is Kolkata hotter than Hell, it’s fucking  _ humid.  _

Derek is miserable being out in the air for just the few minutes it takes for him to walk down the tarmac and through security into the airport. It’s more pleasant at the top of the Rock of Gibraltar in the middle of a heatwave than it is here, and it’s November, for the Gods’ sake! Blessedly, the car taking him to the summit is air-conditioned. As he and Isaac fold into their seats, they each share a commiserating look as their motorcade takes off for the American embassy where the summit is taking place. Even if the United States was once a colony of Carolingia until their War of Independence, they’re still considered neutral ground. 

Once they’re at the embassy, they wade their way through the throng of reporters from across the world who’ve come to witness this historic first meeting. It took quite a while for the two of them to cool off, and in the two minutes it takes to walk into the embassy from the car, any progress made on that front is gone. Derek will have to change clothes at this rate. Inside the American ambassador’s office, he’s cheerfully welcomed and the ambassador assures him that the empress is quite excited for the meeting. He’s swept into hair and makeup, his crown is given a quick shine, and then it is time. 

The Carolingian and Mauryan flags are lined up in alternating rows along the T-shaped stage, which they will cross from opposite sides to meet in the middle to shake hands and exchange handshakes before Derek escorts Empress Mirai to the end for a brief statement to the press before their private discussion. He looks up, and from across the stage, locks eyes on the Empress of Maurya and Maharani of India, Mirai IV Devanampriya, for the first time. 

Empress Mirai is, he must admit, a stunning beauty, being nearly as tall as him even in flat sandals. She wears a richly patterned sari in purple and gold, and her crown is shaped as elephants encrusted with various precious gems. She wears a humble red bindi that stands out against her cocoa-colored skin, and her sable hair is worn down, falling in waves nearly to her waist. 

From across the stage, he sees the director behind the empress make the  _ go  _ gesture, and Derek’s feet move on instinct. The two of them match pace perfectly, meeting perfectly in the middle. She smiles brightly at him, and he can’t help but reciprocate, and when she clasps his hand in hers for that first symbolic handshake, her grip is firm. “It’s a pleasure, Your Grace.” She says, her Mauryan accent lilted and almost musical.

“The pleasure is all mine, Your Majesty.” Derek replies, before turning to offer her his arm in order to escort her down the walkway to the two podiums, which she graciously accepts.

It takes perhaps ten seconds to walk to the podiums, but the flashing lights of the press’ cameras and his nerves make it feel as though it lasts forever. The statement they issue is brief and generic, making clear that this is historic, but only the first step on the normalization of relations, which will inevitably require the input of the Delian League and of Maurya’s own allies. They take no questions, and retire to the American ambassador’s office. After a pitcher of water and glasses are brought, they are finally alone, and take a moment to size one another up.

“I didn’t realize,” Derek begins, chuckling, “That you were quite as tall as you are.” 

This brings a snicker from the empress. “It catches people off-guard, yes. I was always the tallest girl in the palace, taller than all my sisters by a kilometer. I was even taller than my older brother at one point.” 

“My sisters are both short, as is my mother. Never stopped them from being scary as Hell, though.” He says. 

“As mothers and sisters so often are. I have to tell you, Your Grace, it appears that the infamous Kolkata heat has gotten to you.” 

He nods. “I’m afraid so, and I’m also jealous that you seem to be taking it in stride.” 

Empress Mirai takes a sip from her water. “Appearances can be deceiving. I’m feeling it every bit as much as you are. The difference is, I brought my own supply of sweat-proof makeup.” 

“I’ll remember that for my next visit. But we aren’t here to discuss beauty tips, are we, Your Majesty?” Derek asks, now deadly serious. 

“No, we are not.” She sighs, straightening in her chair. “I will be blunt with you, Your Grace: I want this cold war to end. I am responsible for the lives of more than six hundred million people, second only to China in the sheer numbers of subjects, and this cannot keep going.”

He nods, but remains skeptical. “You might understand why I could find this hard to believe?”

“I certainly can understand. After all, every peace discussion has fallen to nothing but broken promises and false premises. But I’ll throw a number at you, one that may hopefully illustrate why I am here. One hundred and four million.” 

“And what is that number supposed to be?” 

Mirai stands, looking out over the city through the office windows. “It’s the number of people in Maurya that do not have running water in their home. One in six, approximately. Do you know the environmental damage a hundred million people defecating and washing in the streets and rivers does? There’s a reason that the Yamuna and Ganges rivers are among the most polluted in the world.” 

“Once,” She continues, “Five hundred years ago, Maurya was the crown jewel of Asia. The Chinese kingdoms squabbled amongst themselves, the islands of Indonesia made civilization-ending war over sandbars in the Java Sea, and the Siamese contented themselves to isolation and their own self-superiority. Then, while the Great Incursions consumed Eurabia, my foolish ancestors decided to seize control of Afghanistan for themselves, and when we lost, it created a centuries-long hatred for the Delian League, made infinitely worse by your aligning with our ancient enemies.” 

“We were accountable as well. Five hundred years of trade disputes before that didn’t help the situation, not to mention the very prejudiced tariff practices of the Byzantines at the time.” Derek concedes. “Still, the attack  _ was  _ a bit much. Trying to break off pieces of us when we were weakened was nothing short of dishonorable.  _ ‘Kicking a man when he’s down doesn’t earn you many friends.’”  _

_ “‘And the friends it does earn you will happily do it to you.’  _ Ibn Batua, fourth century Iraqi philosopher.” She finishes, impressed he knows the quote. “Since the Great Incursions, my ancestors took the riches and promise of Maurya, and they wasted it, building foolish palaces and monuments while our development lagged, to the point where a full  _ sixth  _ of our people must shit in the street. We squandered everything that could have been, and a massive part of that has been on military development to fuel five hundred years of cold war and its intermittent flare-ups. I want a chance for my people, Your Grace, and if I can secure a framework for peace, I can sell off parts of our navy and air force, and redirect huge sections of the budget into domestic development.” 

He sighs, sitting back down and gesturing for her to do the same. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for the accusation of you being involved in the bombing of my wedding.” 

Mirai shrugs. “If I were more like my father, perhaps I  _ would  _ have been involved. But you see, I am not my father. It wasn’t easy, but after he and my brother were found embezzling, and I was crowned, I had them imprisoned on the loneliest rock in the Arabian Sea we owned. May they both rot there.”

“I understand wanting peace, because I want it, too, but Carolingia doesn’t stand alone. This sort of thing can only be done by the whole Delian League. What I propose is this: We draw up a provisional agreement for a mutual demilitarization of the Strait of Pakistan, save for coast guard forces to protect from piracy. If it comes through, we’ll have a broader summit at the next UN General Assembly in September.” He proposes. “It’s not much, and it’s a long timetable, but these things  _ always  _ are.”

“I know,” The empress nods, “But it’s better than nothing. This summit wasn’t meant to solve our problems, only to get us talking about them. I’d also like, with the sponsorship of Carolingia, to be permitted to send a team of diplomatic observers to the next meeting of the Delian League, if Your Grace is willing?”

Derek smiles, holding out his hand. “It would be my honor to invite the Mauryan Empire to observe at Delos.”

Mirai takes it, wearing a broad smile of her own. “I think we made a great deal of progress here, Your Grace.”

“That we did, Your Majesty.”

**-Ω-**

“Be safe in the States, you two.” Kali says as she stands in the airport at Munich, seeing off the twins. “Don’t go trying to overthrow their government, too.” 

“Our revolutionary days are over, we promise.” Ethan avows. “At least, mine are. I don’t know about this asshole.” He jerks his head at where his brother is loading the luggage onto the baggage claim. Aiden doesn’t deign to respond, only giving a middle finger to him.

She rolls her eyes fondly. “Thank you. You two took… an incredible risk in informing us, and we’re happy to see it pay off. Deaton’s days are numbered, and maybe,  _ just maybe,  _ we can see about getting you home to Ukraine when all of this is said and done.” 

Aiden comes over, clapping her on the shoulder. “We’d like that, wouldn’t we, little brother?”

_ “He comes out seventy-nine seconds before me and spends the rest of our lives lording it over my head,”  _ His twin mutters, before speaking to Kali. “We would appreciate that, more than you can imagine.”

“The moment you’re on that plane, you’re officially no longer my problem, so I’ll say it one last time: Stay. Out. Of. Trouble.” She emphasizes each word with a poke in the chest for each of them. 

Ethan gives a mocking salute, before his cheeky grin smiles into something more genuine just as the call for boarding on their red-eye flight is given. “You too, Commander. And, since it’s over, I can finally tell you. It’s not Ethan and Aiden, it’s Artem and Oleksy.” 

Kali nods, grateful for the measure of trust. “Fly safe, Artem. You too, Oleksy.” 

With that, the two young men make for the gate, and she walks over to the window, watching the plane taxi across the tarmac to the runway. The flight picks up speed, before finally lifting off into the setting sun, and with it, a weight lifts off of Kali’s chest. With one less responsibility to worry about, and with the hunt for Deaton on, she can finally bring security back to her nation.

That is, until the plane explodes mid-air.

**-Ω-**

Marin sits at her desk, looking over papers from the day’s Senate session. Just as she finishes a report on the deployment of next-generation electric vehicle chargers throughout the Swiss Cantons, there’s a sharp knock on her office door, before Jean-Claude, her head of security, is striding into the room.

“Ma’am, we need to go,  _ now.”  _ He says, flanked by armed officers. The white berets on their heads are the identifying marker of the Capital Legion, the special forces branch of the military designated to protect and patrol the Ile-de-Carol alone. 

“JC, what’s going on?” She demands. “Is something wrong.” 

Her security chief sighs. “It appears that there’s a coup d’etat at work. The First, Fifth, Eighth, Ninth, and Tenth Armies have all gone rogue. We’ve lost control of half the kingdoms in the empire.” 

_ “What?!”  _

“Ma’am, please, I will explain when we are en route to London. We have to go, now.” He implores. 

Shaken, Marin stands from her desk, and immediately, Jean-Claude and the Legionnaires form a protective shield around her, escorting her through the maze of hallways of Vaugirard Palace towards the rooftop helipad that will fly her to England, apparently still under Crown control. Just then, a thought occurs to her. “What about Versailles?” She asks. 

“Captain Boyd is overseeing the evacuation of the court. Prince Genim and Crown Princess Laura are already on their way to London via the fleet of royal helicopters, alongside some of the key staff and the Imperial Council and their families. The rest are going onto a plane at JHI that’ll leave for Heathrow.” Jean-Claude answers.  _ “We  _ are flying directly to New Scotland Yard, which, until further notice, is the acting center of government.” 

“That seems like the sort of thing the Proconsul, as acting Regent of the Empire in the emperor’s absence, should decide.” She declares. 

Her chief sighs. “Ma’am, we do not have time for this. Outside the Legion, the military is suspect, even supposedly loyal factions. The Metropolitan Police Service can maintain operational authority over London and defend the city until we’ve rooted out any elements from our remaining forces.” 

“Jean-Claude,  _ stop.”  _ Marin says, halting so quickly that the Legionnaires have to scramble to avoid walking into her. “What is going on?! You would never go over my head, especially in a situation like this.” 

For a moment, Jean-Claude looks torn, before sighing. “Told you she was too smart for it.” He says, before pulling out his pistol and leveling it at her head. “It’s nothing per-” 

The traitor’s head suddenly has a hole appear in it, and gunfire blasts through the hallway, taking down the men and women surrounding her, and leaving Marin shaken and covered in blood, with her ears left ringing by the volume of the shots, but unharmed. 

“Are you alright?!” Boyd demands. “Madam Proconsul, are you alright?!”

“I- I- I- I’m fine. Oh,  _ Gods!”  _ She cries, taking in the sight of blood covering the entirety of her lilac pantsuit. 

The Captain grabs her, firmly but gently escorting her back through the halls. “I’m sorry, ma’am. By the time we’d worked out that JC had gone rogue, we were too busy defending Versailles.” 

“De- defending?” Marin asks, now staggered. 

“The palace came under attack. I’m afraid… Versailles has fallen.” He declares. “The Prince and Crown Princess are safe, on their way to London.” 

She blinks. “That’s what he told me. How do I know you’re not lying?!” 

“Because I just emptied his brains onto the wall. Besides, the best lie is one that’s the truth. They were leading you to a helicopter that was going to take you to be held captive at the palace with other staffers and members of the legislature.” He explains. “Luckily, we took the rooftop back a couple of minutes ago, so we can actually take that bird to London.” 

Marin shakily nods. “What about Derek?” 

“They just entered Carolingian airspace. CAF is providing a fighter escort to London.” Boyd says. “C’mon, ma’am, we’re getting you someplace safe.”

**-Ω-**

Derek and Isaac are in the back of their plane, surrounded by the remnants of their in-flight meal and idly bullshitting as Netflix plays in the background, entirely ignored in favor of their conversation, when a member of the guard steps in. “Your Grace, we have a situation.” 

Immediately, the emperor goes from sprawled out across a whole row of seats to standing up. “What’s happening?” 

“I’m not sure,” She says, “But we’ve just had a full air squadron from Camp Bondsteel meet us, saying they’re under orders to escort us.” 

Sure enough, looking out of one of the windows, Derek can spot six F-16’s to the right side of the plane, with no doubt there’s another six on the left side as well. “I need to see the pilots.” He declares, marching for the cockpit. “Do you have them on your headset?” 

“Yes, Your Grace.” One of the pilots answers. “They say they’re Tenth Army, Forty-Second Air Wing.”

“Let me speak to them, please.” He instructs, and the pilot hands over his headset. “10-42 Air Comm, this is Delta Hotel One, state your mission.” 

_ ‘Delta Hotel One, this is 10-42 Air Comm in the blind, cannot, repeat, cannot state mission. I’m sorry, Your Grace, we have our orders.’  _

“10-42 Air Comm, you are addressing your Supreme Commander, you  _ will  _ comply.” He barks.

_ ‘Apologies, Delta Hotel One. 10-42 Air Comm in the blind, going full dark.’ _

Derek curses before handing the headset back to the pilot and stalking back to where Isaac is sitting, anxiously typing at his tablet. “What is it?” He asks. 

“No wi-fi. Phones are dead, too. We’re flying dark.” The other man answers, and then, as if to illustrate his point, the plane’s interior lights go down, leaving only shafts of moonlight coming in through the small portholes. 

The remainder of the flight is tense and deeply anxious. Derek and Isaac attempt to continue their conversation from before, but find they’ve no stomach for light talk, while the members of the guard anxiously pace the length of the jet, some with their weapons drawn. When Isaac takes a moment to look out the window of the plane, he notices the distinct glitter of the moon on water. 

“Der,” He calls, “Look. I think that’s the Channel.” 

“It is. Why are we flying to London?” The emperor inquires. 

Fifteen minutes later, as they finish passing over the English Channel, the lights suddenly go back up in the plane, and another member of the guard is rushing over to them, bringing the pilot’s headset from earlier. “The squadron leader from earlier, Your Grace.” 

“Thank you.” Derek says, accepting the headset. “Air Comm 10-42 in the blind, this is Delta Hotel One.” 

_ ‘Delta Hotel One, this is Air Comm 10-42, no longer in the blind. Apologies, Your Grace, as we had to wait until we were in friendly airspace. The situation is as follows; The First, Fifth, Eighth, Ninth, and Tenth Armies have all gone rogue. Versailles itself has fallen, and much of the nobility and staff has been captured. Your fiancé, sister, and the Proconsul have all made it to London. Our orders are to escort you to the operations center at New Scotland Yard.’  _

All the emperor can do is rush for the trashcan not far from him before he vomits up his dinner.

**-Ω-**

Changed and showered, Marin paces the operations center. The Imperial Council, along with Crown Princess Laura and Prince Stiles, sit at the large conference table. The Archduchess of Benelux’s arm is left in a sling after she was hit in the shoulder during a firefight in the assault on the palace, but she’s insisted on being present for the forthcoming meetings.

“Ma’am, we’ve just gotten confirmation, the emperor’s plane has touched down at Heathrow. ETA twenty minutes.” One of the operations managers says. 

She nods. “Thank you.”

Sure enough, twenty-two minutes after the manager speaks, Emperor Derek is there, striding into the room with a mix of incalculable rage and fear plain of his face, the same as everyone else. He’s trailed by Isaac, and immediately makes his way for Stiles and Laura, pulling them both into tight embraces.

_ “Thank the Gods.”  _ He says intensely, holding them close. 

Tearfully, Laura nods. “We were so worried, and God, Derek… they have Erica.”

“They what?” The emperor’s face goes slack. 

“She got caught when we were being evacuated.” Stiles explains, “They’ve already issued a video statement.” 

“I need to see this.” Derek orders. “Bring up that video.” 

“Yes, Your Grace.” 

On the large screen in the center, a tranquil face, rather young and undeniably handsome, appears, wearing a plain black uniform. His dark skin is flawless, and he wears his head bald, but sports a dark goatee on his face.  _ ‘My name is Alan Deaton, Supreme Commander of the Tenth Army of Carolingia. As of the time of this recording, I currently have operation control of five of the ten kingdoms of the empire, including the capital and much of the Senate and Assembly.’  _ He begins.

_ ‘Here with me is the newly-named Proconsul of the Senate, Jonathan Deucalion.’  _ The camera pans to Deucalion, standing pressed and clean in a new suit, wearing a plain silver circlet on his head.  _ ‘Proconsul Deucalion is now officially the Regent of the Empire, as so named by the Senate, meaning that the false regent, former-Proconsul Morell, has been discharged of all authority. It also means that the authority of Emperor Derek has been suspended under due constitutional authority.’  _

_ ‘What is not constitutional,’  _ Deaton continues,  _ ‘Is the installation of an unproven monarch whose eligibility for the crown has always been suspect at best. Therefore, I am issuing an ultimatum to the emperor and his family. Derek Marcus Raphael Alexander Hale shall henceforth abdicate the throne, and the House of Hale-Alba shall forever disavow any claim to the throne. If this is not done within twenty-four hours, then every person in this palace shall be killed, including the Senators and Assemblymembers, sparing, of course, Proconsul Deucalion. To illustrate my point, I’ll start now.’  _ An older man, one Derek recognizes as one of the palace chefs, is dragged on-screen, desperately fighting the entire way. 

_ ‘Please, no!’  _ He begs. 

Deaton pays him no mind, and without even blinking, pulls out his pistol and shoots the man in the head. 

_ ‘I expect my response by 22:00 tomorrow evening.’  _ The video goes dark.

In horrified disbelief, Derek falls backwards into his seat. Meanwhile, Boyd stands, clearing his throat. “Now that everyone’s here, it’s time I told you all something. A lot of things, actually.” 

“Captain?” Morrell asks, confused. 

“Erica wasn’t… captured. She was intentionally left behind. She, along with myself, are actually covert CIS agents placed in Versailles over a year ago.” He says. “Erica is one of two insiders we have in the palace at the moment. Speaker Deucalion is the other.” 

The emperor’s face goes slack. “You’re  _ what?”  _ He demands. 

“Over a year ago, the CIS got word that a potential coup was being planned against Emperor Diego from within the palace, with elements in the military. I was placed in the Imperial Guard, and Erica was placed in the communications department to gather information on the court and try to root out the traitors.” Boyd continues.

“Why were you assigned to  _ me  _ then?” Derek asks. 

The captain sighs, now clearly uncomfortable. “We infiltrated the Council’s guards, because of course we did. It didn’t take us long to discover the edict regarding your actual ancestry. It seemed a little convenient that someone in the perfect position to inherit the throne in the event of the deaths of the Imperial Family should be engaged to the sitting emperor.” 

Immediately, his face goes hard. “So, I was a  _ suspect.”  _ He spits out the word.

“Everyone was.” He retorts. “It didn’t take us long to figure out you were completely in the dark, but I was in a perfect position. As head of your security, I’d have regular access to the Imperial Family and those closest to them.”

Derek glares at him. “And to install me on the throne when the coup happened.” 

_ “If  _ the coup happened, yes. We always aimed to intercept the plot before it could happen, but we missed something key. We assumed the Capital Legion was free of traitors, but it wasn’t. The Legion is made up of the finest forces of each of the ten domestic armies. They’re appointed by the Supreme Commanders of those armies. Which means that Deaton had spent the last twenty years putting his Dread Doctors right into the capital.” Boyd says. 

“The explosives were rigged by the very men meant to protect us that night…” Gerard says. “Gods above, how could you not tell us this?!”

He whirls, facing the Council. “Because we still don’t know who was on the inside of the Palace. The traitor may be standing in this very room. We had a feeling the reception would be targeted, so certain… precautions were taken. Madam Proconsul, your flight out of Berlin was delayed by  _ us,  _ so that if the worst came to pass, at least you’d have lived.” 

“And my father?” Isaac seethes. “Was my father, the  _ Speaker of the fucking Assembly,  _ not valuable enough to save?!”

Agony paints Boyd’s face at the sudden outburst. “That wasn’t my decision. Erica and I both lobbied to keep key Senators and Assemblymembers away, including your father. We were overruled.” 

“Fuck you, you were overruled. You should’ve cancelled the whole fucking thing.” He snarls, storming out of the room. 

Derek rests his head in his hands. “What does Deucalion have to do with this?” He asks. “How’d he get involved?” 

“He positioned himself in opposition to you and the Proconsul. We figured he’d be the go-to for installing a figurehead if the need came to it. So, we approached him covertly, informed him of the basics, and asked that, in the event of a coup, he act as our inside agent in the puppet government.” 

Lydia curses, loudly. “So, here we are then, everyone suspicious, everyone not who they say they are, and now exiled from our own capital. What the actual  _ fuck  _ do we do now?” 

“I need a minute.” Derek declares, striding out in the hallway. Stiles follows after him, grabbing him by the arm. 

“Hey,” He says, “Not right now. You  _ cannot  _ lose your shit on us right now. We need you.” 

The emperor rolls his eyes. “Clearly not. Two of my closest friends have been spying on me for over a year. They knew who I was and couldn’t be bothered to tell me, even after the shit hit the fan.” 

“You need to swallow all of that and deal with it later. Right now, you’ve lost half our empire, and you need to get it back.” 

“I’m sending you north.” He suddenly declares. “If the traitor is here, I need you as far from it as possible.”

Stiles vehemently shakes his head. “Absolutely not.”

_ “Please,  _ don’t argue this with me, Stiles.” He begs. “My parents bought a house in Shetland, it’s all very nice and modern, and it’s  _ safe.  _ I am asking you, please, go. I’ll be able to do this if you’re safe and away from all of this shit. If things go really badly, there’s a regional airport that flies to Iceland, you can get to the States from there.”

For a moment, he looks prepared to argue, but the fight leaves him, and Stiles nods. “Okay. Okay, I’ll go. But as soon as it’s safe, I’m coming back to you.” He vows, capturing his lips in a kiss. 

“Okay. I love you.” 

He says  _ ‘I love you’  _ like it’s a goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Hopes? Angrily-written missives? Next chapter, the attempt to retake the empire, and Kate makes her move.


	16. Interlude III - The Lie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A journey to 1925 and the court of Emperor Leo III. This was originally supposed to be part of next chapter, but it didn't fit. It is, however, quite an important bit of history. So here, have some royals behaving badly.

The Empress Consort stalks through the marble halls of Versailles. Her olive-toned features, normally placid and lovely, are a picture of fury that sends the staffers fleeing. Clutched in her hand is a heavy wool cloak, dark blue, and trimmed with white fur. She throws open the doors to the Imperial Council chamber, which is in a rare evening session. 

“Everyone out.  _ Now.”  _ She snarls, pointing to the open doors behind her. 

The archdukes and archduchesses all mutter out an identical,  _ “Yes, Your Grace,”  _ before they depart, followed by the guard, who shut the heavy, ornate doors, leaving the furious queen alone with her husband. 

Emperor Leo III raises a brow. “What on Earth was that about, Samira?”

“Whose is this, and why was it in our  _ bedroom?”  _ She spits, throwing the cloak onto the mahogany table between them. 

“I would assume yours, dearest wife, seeing as it’s winter.” He answers. “Perhaps you brought it when you came here from Baghdad and simply forgot about it?” 

Queen Samira unfurls the cloak, revealing the sigil sewn onto the interior of the fabric. “Really? Because that looks like a Collins wolf.” 

There’s a long, pregnant pause as Leo looks at the delicately stitched sigil, before he sits back in his chair with a deep, world-weary sigh. The resigned look on his face is all the confirmation Samira needs as she rears her hand back in a full-arm swing that connects with her husband’s face in a deeply satisfying slap. 

“You absolute  _ bastard.”  _ She seethes, tears now brimming at her eyes. “Five years we’ve been married, and I can count the number of times we’ve slept together on two hands. For  _ five years  _ I’ve endured being in this frozen waste of a country, keeping faith to you despite the fact that I have to throw a fit just to get you to even pay attention to me, and you sully our marriage with that Scottish whore!” 

Leo stands up, stalking around the table to meet his raging wife on the battlefield. “What do you want from me?! You’ve hated me from the day we met!”

“I want for you to keep your vows as my  _ husband!”  _ She spits. “I want for you not to shame our daughter with your dalliances!”

“Oh, you want me to pretend that I’m happy we were forced into a marriage so that your fool father wouldn’t rebel against Constantinople?! You want me to abandon the woman I  _ actually  _ love so that you can go on hating me?!” 

She lets out a growl of frustrated rage. “I never hated you! I wanted nothing but to be a good wife and mother, and clearly I have failed!” 

“Yes, you’re such a failure. Only you could be the queen of an empire and consider yourself a failure, really!” He snarls.

“Send her away.”

“No.”

_ “No?!” _ Samira demands. “How dare you?! You’re going to keep that harlot in my presence, keep fucking her under our roof?! I demand you send her back to Scotland!”

Leo shakes his head.  _ “No.  _ I understand it’s a word you’ve seldom heard in your privileged little life, but you will not take my happiness from me. Besides, won’t it appear odd that after you storm a council meeting and end it to scream at me, a woman I’ve known and been close to for a very long time vanishes from court? Won’t that start some rumors?”

Impotent fury crosses her face as she realizes he is right. “You’ve shamed your daughter.” 

“Oh, don’t drag Jane into this, it doesn’t concern her!” He barks.

“Doesn’t it though?” Samira raises a brow at him, suddenly ice cold. “Your little slut has a whelp, born not long after you finally grew up and left Scotland. He’s older than Jane.”

“So?”

“So answer me this, Leo—  _ is he yours?!”  _

The emperor makes a split-second decision. Admitting that Robert is his would have consequences. Jane’s legitimacy would be called into question. The Scottish may demand that he be placed in the succession ahead of her, which would doubtlessly incite Samira’s brother to rally Iraq in rebellion against the Byzantine emperor, but denying him could potentially cause Scotland to do the same. Does he  _ really _ want to be the emperor that ruins almost fifteen hundred years of warmth between Paris and Edinburgh? 

He knows what he has to say, even if the look in her eyes already says she knows the truth. “No.” 

“Don’t you dare lie to me, Leo Hale, or I swear to Ahura Mazda that I will take my daughter and leave.” She hisses. 

“Oh, yes, drag your bizarre fire god into this, please. You haven’t done _that _before.” Leo snarks.

She goes to slap him again, but he restrains her hand before she can raise it. “Fuck you. My  _ ‘bizarre fire god’  _ is all I have in this forsaken place! I came here for the sake of my empire, married a stranger, and all you’ve ever done is scorn me for my differences!” 

“You  _ never  _ tried to assimilate yourself. You spit on our traditions, you mocked the High Priest of Zeus to his face, you wouldn’t even marry me at Notre Dame! I had to  _ beg  _ you to let my child be named after a proper Carolingian ruler!” He retorts. “Just getting you to stop dressing like some harem concubine was a fight!” 

“I stayed here when my father died because  _ you _ couldn’t be bothered to journey to Baghdad!” Samira screams. 

“And I told you you could go on your own!” 

“I wanted my  _ husband  _ there to comfort me, the way a spouse is supposed to! All you ever did was tell me you were sorry once!” 

Leo rolls his eyes. “Gods above, woman! You want to mourn that badly, go! I’m sure his bones are still being picked at by carrions in a Dakhma in the desert!” 

“You are such an  _ ass!” _ She shrieks. “And what’s worst of all is that you didn’t even have the common courtesy to let me know you were making a fool of me! I have absolutely nothing, and you somehow found a way to take more from me!”

“Nothing, huh? What happened to our daughter you just threatened to take away from me?”

The queen’s eyes now flow freely with tears. “She was never mine! The fucking throne took her from me from the second she was concieved!” 

“Then go take another lover.” He sighs, suddenly exhausted. “Go find someone who can love you, because I cannot. I never wanted this. My damned great-grandfather pawned me off to solve the problems of another country. I couldn’t love you, and I couldn’t be the husband you wanted or needed, because Olive had my heart for years before I even knew you existed.” 

Leo reaches for the cloak that started all of this, and goes to leave the council room. As he does, he turns around, locking eyes with his wife. “I release you, Samira. We may have to stay married, but that doesn’t mean we can’t find happiness elsewhere. You’ve given me an heir to the throne. I will accept any children you produce as my own, just try to do so with a man who at least  _ resembles  _ me, it’ll make all of this much easier.”

With that, he is gone, and Empress Consort Samira Hale, a woman once called the Rose of Baghdad, is alone in a country she does not love, with nothing left to her, not even her dignity. She sits at the table where great men and women chart the course of an empire, and cries until she has no tears left.

**-Ω-**

In the guest apartments afforded to the members of court, the emperor lays on the bed of his lover, Lady Olive Collins, running his fingers over the cloak that was the source of so much trouble. 

“Are you alright?” Olive asks, sitting down next to him.

He nods. “As alright as I can be, I suppose.” 

“She’s not going to remove me from court, is she?”

“No,” Leo promises, “I won’t let her, and anyway, all the palace knows is that we had a massive argument. If you suddenly vanish, they’ll put two and two together, and Samira will wind up looking like a fool before the entire country. She won’t let herself be shamed like that. Though I would recommend you not wear this anymore.” He says wryly, holding up the offending item.

She chuckles. “You’re probably right. Does your wife know about Robert?” 

“Most likely. I lied when she asked, though, and she accepted it. The alternative is… too dangerous. I’ll make it right.” He says. “I’ll change the succession in secret. If the main branch of the Crown ever dies out, it’ll be Robby and his descendants who take the throne, not the Gaulians.”

Olive’s face morphs into concern. “That could cause problems.” 

“We’ll be long dead before the issue ever manifests. Honestly, it’s highly unlikely it ever will, in the first place.” Leo says. “It’s just a way for me to give a little bit of justice to all of this.” 

“So be it.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not the happiest, but here we see the lie that gave Derek the crown. For reference, Samira's religion is Zoroastrianism, which is actually a really cool faith, go check it out. Next chapter, it all comes to a head.


	17. Boden's Mate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boden's Mate: A chess term describing the use of two bishops to put the opponent's king in a check from which it cannot escape. This chapter, all is revealed. Warning for minor and very brief non-con, because Kate Argent.

They’re being kept in the Hall of Mirrors, under heavy guard. The forces of the Dread Doctors bear a strange, bastardized version of the flag, with an angular triskelion rather than the smooth, natural curls of the national banner, the patch blazoned proudly on their shoulders. Erica, for her part, sees the weakness in the symbol. It is made of sharp angles that bend when given even the slightest pressure, no ability to curve and cope when things go awry, and she senses that same weakness in the men who stormed her palace.

She mentally sings the praises of Olympus on high that her cover has not been blown, because she knows exactly what Deaton would do to her if he found out what she really was. She also knows that they’re operating on a limited time frame. Luckily, Deucalion is their inside man, and it seems he’s already formulating a plan, as he asks for her specifically to be handed over. 

“I could use a secretary, and Miss Reyes seems to be quite gifted at it,” He says dismissively, “Plus, keeping continuity of government will make us look all the more legitimate. She’s a civil servant, after all.” 

Deaton nods once. “Indeed you’re right, Lord Regent. I will relinquish Miss Reyes to your capable hands.” 

Erica makes sure she glares at him the whole way to Derek’s office, which Deucalion, as acting Regent, has claimed as his own. Once they’re in private, she relaxes. “What’s the plan?”

“The Guard keeps weapons caches throughout Versailles, hidden in secret places only their ranks know, but since Boyd has become Captain of the Imperial Guard, I have a feeling you know where they are.” He answers. 

“I do,” She replies, “But we’re two people trying to take on dozens. This isn’t an action movie, we’ll be lucky to kill four or five before we’re overwhelmed.” 

Deucalion nods. “You’re right, we’re two people, but what if we could get some backup?” 

The hidden spy tries to think how they could possibly get people into the palace, until she remembers it, a secret so old it hasn’t been touched once in the thousand years that the palace stood. 

“Does it even exist? I thought it was a rumor.” Erica says. “Even if it is real, we don’t even know where it leads, and it certainly could’ve collapsed by now.” 

“It’s real, my dear, and it hasn’t collapsed. After the bombing, the Capital Legion utilized ground penetrating radar on every inch of dirt in the palace complex. They found the tunnel, and it’s structurally sound. Raphael’s Passage runs half a mile out from under the vaults, and deposits in another building owned by the Crown Trust. It’s never been opened. There’s a holdout of Legionnaires not far from here still fighting the First Army. I can get in touch with them, instruct them to the tunnel, and they can get in here.” He answers.

She nods.“What about us?”

“You, Agent Reyes, will dispose of Deaton.” 

“As you say, _ Lord Regent.” _She teases.

**-Ω-**

It is late in the night, and even in a crisis, a man must sleep. CIS Director Gabriel Valack comes home to his empty manse in the wealthy suburbs of Munich, satisfied that the crisis he has had a hand in is going so well. By his own reckoning, it shouldn’t be more than twelve hours before the false emperor abdicates, and the true empress will take her crown, even if she cannot yet wear it for another seventeen years. All the better that Empress Charlotte has a long regency, that they might be able to build a strong empire out of the fatuous farce that the Alexandrian Dynasty has made Carolingia. 

Gabriel sighs with satisfaction, heading for the liquor cabinet in his living room, and pouring himself a glass of whiskey. When he turns around, he’s stunned, though his years of training as an intelligence operative have certainly made it easy for him to hide it. There, sitting on his couch, with a gun leveled at him, is that goddamned Kali Amelios. 

Luckily for Valack, he keeps weapons all around his home, including tucked between the cushions of the armchair that sits across from the couch. “Commander,” He says, nodding his head in a greeting, “May I offer you a drink?” 

“No, thank you, Director. I don’t drink when I’m on the job.” She sweetly replies, though the look in her eyes is nothing but steel. “It’s a lovely vintage, though. Whiskey may be a Carolingian invention, but no one makes it quite like they do in Kentucky.” 

He smiles at her, taking a sip of the alcohol. “You’re quite right there, my dear. So, how did you figure it out?”

“Do you know why I left Crown Intelligence? After all, I was tracking to probably make your job at some point.” Kali asks. 

“I never read your resignation letter, I’m afraid.” Gabriel answers. “Why did you leave us? We could’ve certainly used your skills in orchestrating this little party we’re all attending here.” 

The smile that crosses her face is nothing but grim amusement. “You agency types are all such neophytes, and you never have any appreciation for the old ways. While you and your clever men were so carefully communicating in codes and covering your digital tracks, you didn’t even notice that I put a basic audio bug in your _ phone case. _Go ahead, take a look.” 

He pulls out his phone and pops off the case. Sure enough, there’s a bug there. “You’re very clever, Commander.” He says, tucking his phone back into his pocket and slowly guiding his hand down to where he keeps the pistol tucked into the cushion. 

“Looking for this?” Kali asks, now wearing a Chesire smile and holding up the very gun that Valack was reaching for. “I’m afraid that I’ve got you by the balls. Of course, you never stood a chance, Director.” 

“And why is that?” He spits, now dropping the polite act and letting a bare hint of the cold fury within him come to the surface.

She just keeps smiling at him like he’s her favorite person in the whole world. “You take a glass of whiskey each evening after you get home from work, everyone at HQ knows that. It’s all you can ever seem to talk about at the end of your shift. Lately, you’ve been bragging about a five year vintage from Kentucky you just acquired.” 

“So?”

“So beating you home to slip some strychnine into the bottle you’ve been so very excited about was as easy as passing the entry exams for the CIS.” She says. “I gave you an extra large dose, as well. You’ve got about a minute before the convulsions start, and then it’ll be three to five more before you asphyxiate as a result of the paralysis of the diaphragm.” 

The moment she finishes speaking, Gabriel feels the first tremors in his hands as he drops the glass in his hand onto the floor. Seconds later, his legs flail, causing _ him _to land in the puddle of spilled alcohol on the living room carpet.

Kali gives an innocent little laugh. “Whoops, I guess my math was off.” 

**-Ω-**

All Hell has broken loose inside the New Scotland Yard commander center. On a routine maintenance check on a sewage pipe, city workers discovered something horrid. Inside the pipes, alongside the usual waste of the largest city in the empire, was an emerald-colored fluid that _ glowed. _There’s only one such substance, and it’s an ancient one that it still used in military operations to this day; Greek fire.

Worse yet, when more workers were sent out to examine if the substance was appearing elsewhere, the missing naval mines from CAF Lakenheath were discovered, rigged to blow at the major road intersections and near significant landmarks of the city. Finally, the plan is clear. A city’s plumbing is not dissimilar from the veins of the human body, and there are effectively two separate systems. One carries the potable water used for drinking, bathing, and washing, while the other carries away the wastewater. 

These wastewater pipes feed into the London sewers, but also have water constantly flowing through them. By feeding Greek fire into the waste pipes and putting the stolen mines at the major intersections, which so happen to also form intersections of the city’s plumbing, the Dread Doctors have effectively turned the very city itself into a giant bomb. It’s fucking diabolical, and utterly ingenius.

“We _ must _evacuate!” The city commissioner demands.

“Absolutely not,” Marin barks, “If we blow the alarm, they may detonate the explosives and kill millions!” 

“As opposed to letting them detonate it anyway and kill us all?! At least give people a chance!” 

It takes seconds for the room to break into nothing but countless arguments, before finally, Derek stands, and screams at the top of his lungs. _ “SHUT THE FUCK UP!” _Surprisingly, it’s effective. 

“Now,” He continues, with the room’s full attention, “Is there a way to shut down the city’s water supply? Keep the Greek fire from flowing into the buildings?” 

“In theory, Your Grace, but that doesn’t solve the fact that it’s in the major thoroughfares and water drainage points.” 

The emperor nods. “There has to be a way to drain the pipes. Come on, you’re telling me the largest city in the empire doesn’t have a failsafe in the event of the water supply being tainted?” 

The commissioner shakes his head. “Not all at once. We _ could _drain the city of water in blocs, but that still doesn’t solve the problem of the explosives.” 

Boyd points to the map of the London water systems, overlaid with the locations of the mines. “What if we drained an area, then sent in explosive teams to defuse the bombs? That way, if the explosives go off, it doesn’t cause a chain reaction.” 

“You’re right, Captain,” Marin says, “Get every ordnance disposal team in the Metro Police ready. Shut down the water supply to the city now, that way the shit is out of the buildings and we can focus on keeping it from blowing up the streets.” 

Lydia stands. “And if it explodes anyway?” 

“The damage will be in the billions, probably trillions, but earth and concrete around the pipes will muffle the worst of the explosions, and cause the streets and buildings over the major pipes to collapse. Thousands will die, and there could easily be hundreds of thousands of injuries, but it’ll be nothing compared to every building in the city exploding all at once.” One of the staffers answers. 

“Let’s aim for nothing exploding, then.” Derek declares.

**-Ω-**

In a conference room off of the command center, a devastated Prince Genim Stilinski watches the news feed coming from San Marino. The Eighth Imperial Army, the domestic forces responsible for the protection of Italy, are among those which went rogue. Immediately, the city of San Marino reaffirmed its vocal loyalty for the true ruler, Emperor Derek I of House Hale, and in response, without warning or any prior act of aggression, an airstrike of unprecedented proportions bombed the city clean off of the side of Mount Titano. 

Just the day before, John Stilinski, Lord of San Marino, had returned to his fiefdom to deal with a family matter. It was Lord Stilinski who declared for the Crown, and it was Lord Stilinski who was killed along with thirty thousand others in what has already been decried by the Delian League as a war crime. 

Prince pro tempore Genim Daniel Stilinski, the future Emperor Consort, is now the last of his house. The feed from San Marino, even this late in the night, is lit by the fires that rage over the mountain, promising no survivors and nothing larger than cobblestones to remain of the city that once gave Italy to the empire. Two thousand years of history, wiped away. His _ entire _family, vaporized. Stiles has never felt so alone in his life, nor so numb. 

When Derek steps into the room, he stops short as soon as he takes in the sight of the feed from Rimini Local News, dropping his disposable water bottle with a soft curse. His face shatters, and he rushes across the room to where Stiles still sits, slack with shock.

“Stiles, love?” He asks. “Stiles, talk to me.”

The broken prince’s eyes refocus, and his slackened face morphs into a mask of absolute agony as he stares into his betrothed’s eyes. _ “He’s dead.” _ He whispers. _ “They’re all dead.” _

Beyond words, the emperor pulls him in close, and the second he makes contact, Stiles falls to pieces, letting out a gut-wrenching wail. The noise attracts the attention of the guards outside, who rush in, only to be waved away by their sovereign, who forces his way through tears of his own. Derek holds Stiles for what must be hours, urging him to let the tears flow as long as he needs. 

Eventually, Boyd steps into the room, his face grim but determined. “Derek, the chopper to take Stiles north will be here shortly. We need to get onto the roof.” 

“Can you come with me, love?” Derek asks, kissing Stiles on the top of his head. “We’re gonna get you the Hell out of there. My family is already waiting in Shetland, and I need you to take this.” He instructs, handing him a small folded envelope held closed by the wax imperial seal. 

“What is it?” Stiles queries. 

He sighs. “Laura won’t go with you, she refuses to leave me. If we… if we both don’t make it out of this, it’s an order naming my mother as empress. I promise you, I’m coming back to you, but I need to take every precaution.” 

“Okay,” He nods, “I understand. Just… be safe. I can’t lose you, too.” 

“I will.” Derek vows.

Stiles pops into the command center to say his goodbyes, tightly embracing Scott and Lydia, and looking to Isaac, who has finally calmed down enough to rejoin the discussion. “Keep him safe.” He orders.

The Chief of Staff’s eyes go hard with determination. “Always.” Isaac promises.

Out on the rooftop, the London Metro Police have set up a perimeter and in the distance, the distinct beat of helicopter blades signals that Stiles’ ride will soon be there. The emperor and the prince look at one another, and their lips meet in a desperate kiss, one that both men can only hope conveys everything that needs to be said. 

_ I love you. Be safe. Take back our empire. I love you. Come back to me. I fucking love you. _

All too soon, they must break apart as the military chopper touches down on the roof, and a group of soldiers emerges, sporting patches of the Scottish Saltire on their arms. It relieves Derek immensely that his countrymen will be taking Stiles to safety. Scotland has never betrayed the crown, and he knows that each and every one of the soldiers on that bird will lay down their lives to protect their future king. 

The commander of the group, a sharp-eyed looking woman whose name patch reads _ Lt. C. M. Thomas, _approaches Derek, and bows her head before snapping into a salute. He returns it, before holding his hand out to her. “Thank you.” He says, sounding emotional even to his own ears. 

“Always, Your Grace.” She replies with her heavy brogue. “We’ll get him there.”

The group loads up into the helo, and Stiles and Derek lock eyes through the windows one final time as the bird takes off. Boyd lays a hand on his shoulder, and he turns around, tears brimming. “Tell me I did the right thing.” The emperor begs. 

“You did. He’ll be-” 

Boyd’s head snaps backward, and suddenly a massive gout of blood and brains paints the wall a couple of meters behind him. Before Derek can so much as scream in horror, there’s a loud _ whoosh, _and he whips around just in time to see a rocket-propelled grenade make contact with the back rotor of the helicopter meant to carry Stiles to safety. The entire tail of the bird is enveloped in fire, and the craft quickly begins to spin out. He watches, utterly numb, as it vanishes behind a nearby skyscraper. A few moments later, there’s an incredible crashing noise. 

The young monarch is so numb to what’s going on around him that he hasn’t even noticed the snipers have managed to dispatch all of the police on the rooftop around him in a handful of seconds. _ They want me alive, _Derek thinks to himself. With a sigh of resignation, he places his hands behind his head and drops to his knees of the helipad. There’s no point in resisting anymore, the bastards have taken everything. 

From behind him, there’s a deafening explosion, and when he looks, he sees that downriver, a mushroom cloud of neon green flame has blossomed. _ They blew up half the fucking city just to get me, _ he thinks with a grim mental chuckle, _ Am I really worth that much trouble? _Burning debris soars through the sky, leaving emerald traces behind them like a meteor shower from the depths of Hell.

The Dread Doctors appear out of the shadows, it seems, and the last thing he hears is the murmur of one of the paramilitants into his radio comm. “We’ve got him.”

He can’t make out the response on the other side, because at that moment, the soldier slams the butt of his rifle against the back of Derek’s head, and the sweet darkness of oblivion rushes up to meet him.

**-Ω-**

For a tunnel that hasn’t been opened in nearly a thousand years, Raphael’s Passage is in surprisingly good condition. It doesn’t even have that many cobwebs in it. With a kevlar vest over her pantsuit and a military-issue automatic pistol in her hand, Erica slips through the darkness with only the small light on her weapon to guide her.

The kilometer from the palace to the end of the tunnel in the basement of a small office building owned and maintained by the Crown Trust for the Department of Labor and Wages feels like an eternity, but at last, she has reached her target. Recalling the specialized knock code that Deucalion designated, Erica taps a pattern against the hollow plaster wall. Immediately, the wall bangs with the correct response before a voice shouts. 

_ “Stand back, ma’am!” _ A man’s voice bellows. _ “We’re gonna break the wall down!” _

She steps back a couple of meters before replying. _ “Clear!” _

There are a few earth-shaking thuds before the plaster gives way in a tsunami of dust, a bloodied, bruised, and thoroughly abused but still determined squad of twelve White Berets stands there, offering wry grins and smart-assed waves.

“Agent Reyes?” The CO asks, holding out a hand. “Commander Pedro Morales, Ninth Squadron, Styx Cohort, Capital Legion.” 

Erica makes an impressed sound. “Styx Cohort. The Defenders of Versailles.” 

Commander Morales nods. “We stood with Empress Jane on the walls of the palace, watched her run the Caliph through herself. Only fitting that we take Versailles _ back.” _

“Godsdamned straight, soldier. We’ll get her back.”

They walk through the long line of the tunnel, before emerging into the eerily quiet vaults of the crown. The group stalks through the rows of ancient jewels with their weapons drawn before they make for the vault door, emerging silently. “Stenz, any chatter?” 

A short man, dark skinned and built like a brick wall, shakes his head as he looks at a small device in his hand. “Just the usual.” 

“Good,” Morales says, giving a dangerous grin, “This is gonna be a surprise party.” 

**-Ω-**

Pain. A throbbing pain in the back of his skull. Chains hold his arms above his head. The room around Derek is dank and smells of water-damage and decay. When he opens his eyes, it’s to the sight of ancient, crumbling stone walls and light drifting in from a lone slat of a window far too narrow for a human being to fit their body through. He’s sprawled out on a mattress that’s been laid on the floor, and across the room, there is a heavy wooden door that he’d bet anything has been barred. A single table, ancient-looking, has a small empty syringe on it, still in its packaging. 

The losses hit him. Boyd. _ Stiles. _ He knows he should be weeping, but he just doesn’t have it in him. Too much loss. Too much death. Derek has no tears left to cry. Instead, the emperor simply sits there, resting his aching head against the cold stone of the walls and replaying that last kiss through his head. Eventually, the door opens, and he has to admit, he didn’t see _ this _one coming. 

There she stands, in a pair of tight jeans and a plain white tee shirt, wearing her hair tied back in a loose, messy bun and no makeup. Lady Katherine Argent. Of _ course _she was the traitor. He can only assume that would make Gerard at the very least complicit. 

“Good morning, Your Grace.” She greets him politely in that posh accent of hers. “Is your head bothering you too much? These oafs can be a bit rough.” 

“No worse than when I hit my head after you blew up my wedding.” He blithely retorts.

Kate giggles, the sound high and melodic. “Oh, Derek, you always were the most fun. By the way, welcome to Castle Acre, the ruins of the original seat of House Argent, back before we ruled Anglia. The seat was abandoned when Alexander III granted us Buckingham Palace.”

“Is that why you took me? For fun?” 

“You’re not far off the mark this time, my love.” She says, suddenly dark and serious and much too close to him. “But first, a story.”

“In April of 1972, my parents took a holiday to the north, to Castle Collins in Aberdeen. While there, my sainted mother decided to have a drink with her host, one Duke Jacob Collins. What started at first as friendly chatter turned to serious discussion, into drunken confessions. My mother admitted that my lord father was an abusive monster, who beat her and raped her as regularly as he pleased. Meanwhile, Duke Collins confessed himself trapped in a loveless marriage made only worse by his wife’s postpartum depression following the birth of their first child.” Kate explains. 

“Exposing their deep pains, my mother and your grandfather shared a night of pleasure, desperate to feel something, _ anything _ besides violence and coldness. Nine months later, in February of 1973, _ I _was born.” 

Cold dread fills Derek’s stomach. It’s impossible. Grandfather had loved Nana with he had, hadn’t he? Could Kate truly be his aunt? “Liar.” He spits. 

“Afraid not. Look for yourself, the proof is in the blood.” She smugly replies. “I took your genetic results from when you were first crowned and compared them to my own. Twenty-five percent shared DNA.” 

She grabs a sheet of paper from the table that he couldn’t see from his angle, and holds it in front of him. It reads out _ 25% DNA match. No mitochondrial commonality. Telomeric age of subject 1: 22 standard years. Telomeric age of subject 2: 45. Most likely relationships: Aunt/Nephew, Half-siblings. _

Derek feels like he’s going to be sick, but Kate just keeps talking. “So, you see, this whole venture was to get me the crown that is _ mine _by rights. Your mother turned it down, but I did not.”

“They’ll never accept you, Hale by blood or not.” He snarls. 

“Oh, you see, Derek,” She smiles coyly, “That’s where you’re wrong. You see, I’m pregnant with your child. Or, well, I soon will be. I’ve all I need here at this charming little castle to do the job.” 

The emperor rolls his eyes. “So, what, your plan is to say you were taken along with me, and reveal that you’re my surrogate? We don’t exactly have the paperwork all signed, and even if you did, the most you _ might _get is a regency until the child is grown.”

Kate’s smile becomes a downright shit-eating smirk. “You’ve got the gist of the plan, but you suffer from a failure of imagination. Forging the surrogacy paperwork was easy enough, though getting your late fiancé’s signature was a bitch. As for the problem of the child, well, genomic technology has come quite far. Engineering a fatal flaw into its genes will be easy, especially one that is common in _ incest.” _

“So _ that’s _your plan for the reveal.” He says, now understanding. “The child is born dead, or dies shortly after birth, and then when the autopsy and DNA examination is done, it reveals that you were my aunt.” 

“Ding, ding, ding! We have a winner, give him a prize!”

“And what part did your father play in this?”

She laughs loudly. “That fool? He’s far too loyal to the crown to ever dream up such an ingenious little plot.”

“And Deaton?”

“Deaton wants what I want. A strong Carolingia, with a strong ruler on the throne. Of course, there will have to be quite a bit of cleanup, and I’m afraid that the general and his Dread Doctors have outlived their usefulness. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Capital Legion has already retaken Versailles, and the evidence fabricated against you to convince the armies to rise in rebellion will be quickly proven false.” She says. “As for Goran and the other idiots with the YLF, what few are still alive, well, they’ll be dead before sunrise tomorrow, I’m sure.” 

“There’s a hole in your plot. Laura is still Crown Princess.” He says, now seething. 

“Poor Laura will step aside when I reveal my pregnancy, I’m sure of it. Even if she becomes Regent in the interim, she won’t want the throne. Besides, she’ll be disposed of soon enough. You see, with you dead, your poor mother will simply be lost in her grief, and then, one night, when I am visiting Castle Hale, she’ll finally snap. I will be the sole survivor from our family of Talia Hale’s mental break that results in her setting her own keep ablaze.” 

At that, Derek attempts to break free, but the chains restrain him, and so he is left desperately trying to reach her, but Kate is kept just out of his grasp. She lets out another one of her musical giggles. “It’s all very perfect, don’t you think? Now, there’s the matter of our… _ conception.” _

She steps around him, tightening his chains until he’s forced flush against the wall, and then, suddenly, she is much too close, her overpowering floral scent filling his nostrils as she strokes along the inside of his thigh. “It’s a shame that such a handsome face has to die, but this is what our empire needs,” She delicately murmurs, “And I am a servant of the people. I can certainly make sure that you at least enjoy yourself before you go.” 

Kate’s hand slips into Derek’s pants, wrapping around his completely flaccid cock, attempting to work him to hardness. “What’s the matter? Can’t get it up for your aunt?” She taunts. “Come now, nephew, don’t be so prudish.”

The mockery of their shared blood stirs the paralyzed Derek into action. He rears his head back and slams it against hers, and she flies backwards, clutching her now bloodied nose. “So,” She spits, “It’ll be the hard way. Fine, I’ll have just as much fun using a hypodermic needle on your testicles.” 

Before that, however, she grabs something else off of the old table, and whirls around. The blast of the pistol is deafening in the enclosed space, and hot white agony explodes up his right side as the bullet tears its way through his gut and out of his body, embedding itself in the stone behind him. Derek lets out a terrible scream, and Kate pulls the syringe from its package, attaching the low-gauge needle to it.

“Hold still, Your Grace,” She taunts, “This is going to hurt a _ lot.” _

**-Ω-**

_ “Coward!” _Erica screams, firing her pistol ahead as she chases after Deaton.

The assault went off without a hitch. Just as she thought, these Dread Doctors were nothing compared to the Legionnaires, who overwhelmed their force in a surprise attack even more cunning than the one that allowed them to take the palace in the first place. As soon as it had all gone tits up for him, Deaton had turned tail and ran, doubtlessly for the palace helipad. 

Through the winding, ancient halls, the predator chases her prey, but Deaton is fucking _ fast. _He attempts to return fire, until finally, one of the bullets catches its mark, sending Erica skittering to the hard marble floors. Unfortunately for him, the projectile only struck kevlar, leaving her winded, but very much alive. As soon as she’s recovered, Erica takes off sprinting once again, delayed but not out of the running. 

By the time she reaches the helipad, Deaton already has his escape craft in warmup. Just as he goes to board, she bellows out. _ “Hold it!” _

The traitor turns to face Erica slowly, raising his hands above his head, and dropping his weapon. “Quite the shot for a press secretary, Miss Reyes.” He compliments, going onto his knees. “A bit too skilled.”

“Top marksman in my class at the CIS academy in Verdun.” She smugly retorts. “Alan Deaton, in the name of His Grace, Derek Marcus Raphael Alexander Hale, Emperor of Carolingia, I name you traitor to the crown.” 

“Invoking ancient rites?” Deaton asks, impressed. “Last I knew, summary execution is illegal, Agent. I have surrendered, you are required by law to take me alive.”

Erica’s face is ice cold as she levels her pistol at his head. “You’re much too dangerous to take alive.”

The lone gunshot echoes out into the morning light over the grounds of Versailles.

**-Ω-**

“So, this is how it ends.” A male voice breaks from next to him. “Fifteen hundred years of our family’s rule, dying ignobly in the ruins of some godsforsaken castle in rural England.”

Derek looks up, and sees a man with a short crop of dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard standing in the room, dressed in beautiful silver plate armor, a cape of sapphire blue clasped to his shoulders and a short sword hanging from his waist. He’s seen the paintings and even photographs of this man, but nothing compares to what he looks like standing here in person. 

“Great,” He drones, low and delirious, “I’m hallucinating. Alexander III, or should I call you Great-Times-Five-Grandfather? Five? Six?”

“Seven,” The ghost of the long dead monarch says, “And how do you know you’re hallucinating?”

Derek’s hands, freed from their shackles once Kate had done what she needed to do, gesture to the puddle of blood that has soaked the mattress. “Blood loss can cause hallucinations. I’ve lost a lot of blood.” 

“Well, either way, we need to have a chat.” Alexander says, leaning against the table. “You are not giving up here. We do not die out in some shithole and allow tyrants to roll over us.” 

“Didn’t you hear her? She’s my aunt!” He retorts. “The throne is hers!”

“The throne will never belong to anyone but a true Hale. I’d abolish it myself before I let some fool pretender steal it.”

He sighs. “It’s _ over. _They have Paris, they have half the army, they annihilated half of London… they took Stiles from me.” The last part comes out small and broken. 

Alexander stands, offering his armor-clad to hand Derek, lifting him up. “Let me show you something.”

All at once, the scenery around them melts away, morphing into a balcony overlooking the sea, lit only by candles, and a small group of people dressed in ancient formalwear stand gathered around a table, looking over a large piece of parchment. At the head of the table are two women, clearly a mother and daughter. The older woman is dressed in a plain black gown, wearing a simple golden circlet upon her auburn-covered head. 

“And here it is, my lords and ladies,” She says in a slight accent that Derek has never heard, lilted and yet slightly guttural. _ Ancient French, _ he realizes, _ She has a French accent. The mainland dialect hasn’t fully evolved yet. _“You have elected me your sovereign, and I shall lead you to liberation from my fathead husband. We will fight for our children, and our children’s children, to have a future with competent leaders who care for those under their charge. As I fight for my daughter, I fight for all the children of this new empire, and I christen it in honor of her. I christen our empire Carolingia.” 

From behind him, his ancestor’s voice breaks. “The Declaration of the New Crown, the founding document of the empire. Empress Marguerite I rallied the Gaulians in open rebellion against her husband after he was humiliated by the British in the Lowlands War that cost France Normandy and Brittany. Imagine how terrified she must have been, how full of doubt that she was right to drag her country out of one devastating war and into another. Still, she did it.” 

At once, the scenery shifts again, this time to a familiar location, the Great Hall of Edinburgh Castle. The room is dimly lit in the evening, its red painted walls filled with the shadows of dozens of men and women, many dressed for war. At the end of the hall, in front of the massive blazing fireplace, the younger woman from before now stands next to another, who is addressing the gathered nobles in a heavy Scottish brogue.

“… and she has offered us kinder terms than any conqueror could hope! Empress Caroline has spoken bluntly, but true— Scotland’s days as an independent kingdom are over. Now, however, we have a chance to _ choose _who shall rule us! Will we bend to the backstabbing Plantagenets, or to House Hale, whose very sovereign journeyed here, aware that she may be walking into her death, to offer us a chance to fight for a ruler we can respect?” 

“Anne Martin, the last Queen of Scots.” Derek mutters. 

Alexander shakes his head. “No, Derek, _ you _are the King of Scots. It is a title that is yours by right. Watch.” 

The room is filled with a long, pregnant silence, before a man that he does not recognize stands, drawing his greatsword from its scabbard and holding it above his head like a torch and dropping to one knee. “House Collins bows before you, Caroline Hale, Empress of Carolingia, and Queen of Scots!” He proclaims. 

The vow of fealty sparks something else, a tidal wave of vows, all of them proclaiming Caroline as Queen of Scots. The lords and ladies draw their swords, dropping to their knees. The empress walks around the table she had been standing behind, before dropping to a knee before the assembled nobility. 

“I accept your vows, my most noble subjects, and make one of my own. So long as my house sits upon the throne in Paris, there will always be love between the crown and Scotland. So long as this empire lives, we will remember the brave men and women of this great land, who chose to fight for liberty, for justice, and who _ chose _this union. I welcome you, my brothers and sisters, to the Empire of Carolingia.” She says soberly, and the room erupts into cheers.

Again, the scenery shifts, and the two men stand on a crenelation overlooking a raging battlefield. Behind them, the Palace of Versailles stands, placid and untouched by the war being fought outside its gates. 

“Look,” The deceased ruler points down onto the top of the wall below the tower they watch from, “In the heat of it all, Jane II defends her home.” 

Sure enough, there is a small woman in a battledress hacking at the men climbing her walls. Rather than a helm, she wears a crown of woven driftwood. She barks commands to her men, who move in orderly waves even as the Andalusian forces threaten to overtake them. A clearing forms, and a handsome young man appears across from her, bearing his own weapon. For a moment they appraise one another before they charge, blades ringing as they meet. Even as the fighting continues on the field, those around them have stopped to witness this incredible moment, when the rulers of two kingdoms have met to fight against one another for the first time since the great duel between Marguerite I and her husband, the last King of France, Philippe IV. 

The match does not last long as Jane overcomes her opponent, the Caliph Camran Osman al-Madrid, disarming him with a careful swipe, before, without the slightest hesitation, she drives her blade clean through his armor and into his heart. The invader’s eyes go wide with shock, and then his entire face goes slack as he slides off of her blade, dead before he hits the ground. 

“She did what she had to, and see how the Gods rewarded her. Jane fell her enemy herself, and set us down on a path to greatness, when she could have surrendered on terms that allowed her to keep her crown.” He says. “There’s one more thing you must see.”

They appear in the interior of Notre Dame, where hundreds of nobles sit in long rows. To Derek’s surprise, Alexander is no longer beside him, but instead sits on a simple wooden chair, still wearing his armor, and with a simple crown on his head. Kneeling before him is a beautiful woman, dressed resplendently in a beautiful gown of red and gold, blazoned with lions. The only thing wrong with the scene is the presence of the heavy chains upon her wrists. When Alexander speaks, it’s with venom dripping from every word. 

“Duchess Margaret Plantagenet. You stand charged with forgery of the imperial signet, with treason against the crown, with uxoricide, and with usurpation of a landed seat. The evidence of these crimes is undeniable, and for them, I sentence you to die.” 

_ “Please, Your Grace!” _ The noblewoman begs. _ “Mercy, I implore you!” _

The one they call the Silver Emperor stands, stalking over to her, and locking eyes. “Did your husband beg for mercy? Did the tens of thousands of Englishmen who died on the battlefield in the War of the Roses? Did the countless civilians who were raped, beaten, and slaughtered because of your betrayals? I imagine a great many of them did. For your crimes against England and the Crown, you will have no mercy. Tomorrow morning at nine, you will be beheaded on the portico of the Louvre.”

As Margaret Plantagenet is led away sobbing, the vision ends, and Derek is back in his cell with his forebearer, who stares at him with appraising green eyes. “Our family’s history is one of difficult, even terrifying choices. Losses, wars, betrayals, we are no strangers to them all. What makes us different, what makes us _ phoenixes _ is that we rise from these things. Do what you have to Derek, for the sake of our empire. _ Be a phoenix.” _

And like that, he is gone, and quiet resolve fills Derek. He will not die in this place. He takes a few staggering steps and gathers all of his strength, rushing at the ancient door and slamming into it. The wood gives way under his strike, and he limps his way out into the dark hallway. Following the sound of voices, knowing what he needs to do. 

“… Betrayed _ everything _ we stand for!” A gruff, English-accented voice carries to his ears. _ Gerard. _

“I will take what is mine.” Kate replies. “You see, you foolish fuck, I am not your daughter. I am the daughter of Jacob Collins, and the throne is mine by birthright.” 

There’s a momentary silence, and Derek peers out from behind the corner, into a room where a great deal of biomedical equipment has been set up, no doubt for Kate to inseminate herself with their unnatural offspring. In the center of it, the two Argents stand, and the look on Gerard’s face is one of absolute shock and betrayal. 

He searches for words, but she continues. “You abused my mother for years, and then you went and became nothing but a simpering fool lapping at the teat of the crown! What happened to the bare-fisted bastard who broke the backs of striking miners?! They called you Ferrus, because you were more iron than silver! Now look at yourself!”

“Katie…” He trails, clearly devastated. “Katie, this needs to end. Your friends are dead or captured. The truth _ will _come out.” 

“The truth dies here. The truth dies that idiot boy in a cell down the hall. The truth dies with _ you.” _

Without hesitation, she lifts her pistol and fires directly at the man who raised her, blowing his brains out. Gerard falls to the ground, dead in an instant, and Kate, for her part, walks over, looking at him with a mix of pity and disgust on her face. “Old fool.” She mutters to herself. 

Derek steps out of the shadows, and while she’s distracted, rushes at Kate, slamming into her with as much force as his weakened body will allow. Ignore the agony of the impact, he scrambles onto where she’s landed flat on her stomach with a deep _ oof! _

With one knee pressed in her stomach, he reaches up onto the nearby lab table, and pulls down a microscope. Unceremoniously, he thumps it against the back of her head, and the would-be usurper falls still. Standing, Derek searches for _ something _to restrain her, until he finds a length of electrical cable. Dragging Kate’s unconscious form to a nearby pillar, he restrains her with the tightest, most complex knot he can manage. 

The emperor searches the corpse of the fallen Archduke of England, before he finds his prize, Gerard’s cellphone. Stumbling out of the ruined castle and into the chilly air of the November afternoon, Derek presses the call button on the contact he was searching for. A familiar voice picks up on the first ring. 

_ ‘Archduke Argent? Gerard, where are you?’ _Marin asks. 

Panting, Derek manages to force out two words. “Castle… Acre…”

With that, he falls to his knees, and welcomes unconsciousness as an old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, everyone reunites and deals with the aftermath. Drop a review!


	18. Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, the ending. All that remains is a brief epilogue.

Everything feels slow. Sounds are simultaneously too close and too far away, and his body refuses to cooperate with the commands his brain gives. After what feels like days, but perhaps it’s only hours, or even just seconds, his eyes finally manage to creak open. Derek badly wishes he could wipe them, but even twitching his fingers feels like an impossibility at the moment. It takes him a few tries to swallow down his dried, disused throat, and he can barely make his tongue move, let alone form the complex shapes with his mouth needed to convey language. 

The room around him is elegant and modern. A large flatscreen is mounted on the wall across from the bed, which is painted a soothing shade of green with wood paneling making up the lower half. The art hanging on the wall is inoffensive, consisting of landscapes showing rolling hills and dotted with windmills. There is a sitting area with a coffee table, couch, and a handful of chairs, and even a small dining table and kitchenette.

Tilting his head to the right to look out his hospital window is a struggle, and when he manages to do so, he does not recognize the skyline outside. It is dusk, the horizon still softly glowing in the aftermath of sunset, and a half moon hangs high in the sky, surrounded by a host of glittering evening stars. At this point, Derek registers the feeling of oxygen being forced into his nostrils through the line that is wrapped around each of his ears, and the sound of his elektrokardiogramm beeping behind him, steady and even. 

After a few minutes of increasing effort, he finally manages to make his arm cooperate, and reaches onto the nightstand beside his hospital bed for the call button, pressing down on it and feeling satisfied at the gentle _ ding _of the summons for the medical staff. If he’s this slow to recover even basic motor skills, Derek would wager he’s been down for quite a while. 

Sure enough, almost immediately, a woman in her seventies, white hair pulled back in an efficient bun and dressed in a fine pantsuit and lab coat appears. The nametag on her coat reads _ Dr. Brouwer, _and she has a kind face, one that suggests she was once a bombshell beauty who has managed to gracefully age into a stately elegance. 

“Your Grace?” She asks in a gentle alto. “Your Grace, can you understand me?” 

Derek nods his head, and she smiles. “Excellent. My name is Doctor Lisbeth Brouwer, you’re at Amsterdam UMC in Holland. Can you try talking for me?” 

It takes him a few moments to work his jaw free of tension, but the emperor’s body seems to be coming back to him now. “H-How lo-ong have I been out?” He manages to force. 

“We’ve had you in a medically induced coma for the last two weeks because of the very severe concussion you received when you were kidnapped, and the injuries after the fact.” His face must betray his shock, because she quickly rushes to continue, “Everything is fine, the uprising is defeated, you are safe.” 

At that, Derek lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “What happened?”

Doctor Brouwer bites her lip before answering, speaking very gently as she does. “After you called for rescue, you were found by a medevac team from CAF Rendlesham, and they made the decision to bring you here because we’re one of the finest trauma surgery sites in the empire. They gave you several transfusions on the flight over.” 

“And then?”

“You were very nearly dead by the time you reached us. We rushed you into emergency surgery, and performed a partial hepatectomy, meaning that we had to remove the right third of your liver. I’m afraid that you flatlined on the table three times, Your Grace.”

The monarch takes a deep breath, trying to process the fact that he had very nearly died, not once, not twice, but _ three _times. “And my liver?” He queries, attempting to power through the rush of emotions.

“Regenerating beautifully.” She assures him. “Most of the growth will be done in the next six months, and we expect it to be fully finished within a year.” 

“I assume the fact that I died three times has something to do with why I was put in a medically induced coma?” Derek asks. 

Brouwer nods. “Your body desperately needed time to recover. You lost almost half of your blood, and you were deep in shock by the time you got to us. Frankly, it’s a miracle you’re alive. Luckily, the blood loss didn’t damage your brain, and you’ve gotten most of the difficult healing out of the way. You’re going to need some physical therapy, as well as time to reacclimate to eating actual food, but your prognosis has been excellent since we managed to get you stabilized.”

“Thank you.” He sighs, settling further into his bed, suddenly overcome with exhaustion. “Is it,” Derek is interrupted by a yawn, “Normal, excuse me, to be so tired after a coma?”

“Yes, Your Grace. Get yourself some proper sleep, and I’ll be by in the morning. Ring if you wake up and need anything, the nurses will be glad to help you.” She instructs, standing and making for the door. “Oh, and Your Grace?”

He forces his eyes to stay open just a few seconds longer. “Yeah?”

“I’m very glad you’re safe, and very honored to be your physician.” 

“The honor,” Another yawn, “Is mine. G’night, Doctor.”

**-Ω-**

Marin Morrell, Proconsul of the Senate and now Lady Regent of the Empire, is restless the entire flight from Paris to Amsterdam. She was reached just as she was going to bed with word that the emperor had finally awoken, and now, the following morning, is on the first flight out of Jane Hale International. The seventy-five minute plane ride feels like an eternity, as does the motorcade from the airport to Amsterdam UMC.

At just after nine in the morning, she finally reaches her destination, walking quickly through the halls while a team of doctors blather medical nonsense at her, all which she breaks down to one key point: Derek is going to be fine. She waves the healers off, and posts her White Berets on the door as she steps into the emperor’s room. 

“Your Grace? Derek?” She calls, not seeing him. 

He steps out of the bathroom, dressed only in a pair of loose linen pants and the standard-issue hospital socks. “Marin.” He says, smiling broadly. “I am so glad to see you.” 

The Proconsul returns the grin, suddenly overwhelmed with relief, not just for the sake of the empire, but for the man she’s come to consider a dear friend.. “The feeling’s very mutual. You look great.” 

“No scars!” He enthuses. “They used that stem cell glue shit that regenerates your skin.” 

“Only the best for the emperor. Do you mind if I sit?” 

“Please,” He gestures to the sitting area of his private suite, “I just need to throw on a shirt and I’ll join you. Anything to get out of that damned bed.” 

While he dresses, Marin sits down, crossing her legs. When Derek joins her, he points to the plain silver circlet resting on her head. “They made you Lady Regent again, I see.”

_ “Technically,” _She delicately replies, “You never formally relieved me in writing before the Senate. Kind of hard while they were being held hostage.” 

“How did that go?” He asks, now concerned. “Did anyone else die?”

“Erica led a covert operation to retake Versailles from the inside using a loyalist faction of the Capital Legion. Three Legionnaires were killed in action, but the Dread Doctors were all killed, including Deaton. We found out that the armies rebelled because they were shown false evidence saying that you and I conspired to bomb your wedding, which was quickly proven to be fake. It seems Kate Argent intended to create chaos, but not overthrow the government.” She answers.

Derek swallows thickly. “What about John, and Boyd, and… Stiles? Have they begun arranging funerals, were they already-”

“Stiles is alive.” Marin interrupts. “He survived the crash, he’s on his way here right now, he hasn’t left Amsterdam since you were brought here.” 

It is as though the floor has fallen out from under him. He had barely allowed himself to dwell on thoughts of Stiles, knowing damn well that the weight of it would strike soon enough, and that there was too much to do for him to fall apart as completely as would be needed. Immediately, tears well into Derek’s eyes. 

“Don’t lie to me.” He says. _ “Don’t you dare fucking lie to me.” _

She does not speak, but rather, pulls up an article on her phone from _ The World, _the main newspaper serving Paris. There it is, the headline printed in bold lettering: 

_ EMPEROR, PRINCE PRO TEMPORE SURVIVE ASSASSINATION ATTEMPTS IN FAILED COUP D’ETAT _

Derek snatches the phone, frantically scanning the article. _ “Emperor Derek found in critical condition… Versailles Palace retaken in shocking special operation… Prince pro tempore Genim survived the shooting down of his airlift from New Scotland Yard with a broken leg, bruised ribs, and a minor concussion. Of nine aboard the craft, only two were killed.” _He reads aloud to himself, before going limp in absolute relief. 

“Derek?” Marin asks, reaching for him. “Derek, it’s alright. He’s alive, Stiles is on his way as we speak.” 

Just then, a Legionnaire steps in. “Ma’am, Your Grace, Prince Genim’s motorcade just pulled.” He says. 

The Proconsul stands. “Someone else has to come here as well, but she won’t be here until later. I’m going to go down to the café and get myself a coffee, send for me when you’re ready, okay?” Still consumed by emotions, Derek simply nods, unable to speak just yet. Marin steps out of the room, leaving him to collect himself for a few minutes. There’s a sound of crutches hitting the floor, and then, there he is. 

Frankly, he looks like shit. Stiles is dressed in a too-big sweater Derek recognizes as one of his and a ratty pair of sweats that do nothing to conceal the large cast that runs up his entire left leg. His hair is a complete mess, his face is _ still _covered with bruising and scabs, and one of his lips is still split from where it hasn’t finished healing. Not one of those things matters, because he’s alive, and so he’s the most beautiful thing that the young ruler has ever seen. His betrothed pauses for a moment, looking at him with the same set of emotions he knows paints his own face. 

“Hi.” Stiles rasps, clearly seconds from breaking into tears. 

“Hi.” He responds.

Derek stands up, crossing the room stopping just in front of him, tears flowing freely down his face. He lets one hand drift up to gently cup Stiles’ bruised cheek, and leans his forehead against his. 

“Did you hear Erica saved the empire?” He asks, desperate to break the silence. 

The prince breaks into bleary laughter. “Shut up and kiss me, you asshole.”

**-Ω-**

After taking time to reunite, the two men sigh and admit that there is much to do. After all, the empire just narrowly escaped a coup, and now there are a great many traitors to hold accountable for their crimes. 

“Speaking of crimes, did they… ever find your dad’s body?” Derek gently asks. 

Stiles shakes his head before answering quietly. “The, uh, search teams haven’t reached the ruins of the keep yet. It was hammered first, so they’re not too optimistic.

_ “Gods, _Stiles, I’m so sorry. This… this is my fault.”

“No, no it is not. This is all Kate Argent’s fault, and she will answer for it. My father knew he was a target anyway, and he knew what the people of San Marino wanted. They refused to betray their monarch. There are still another ten thousand Sammarinese left, and we’ll rebuild. Unfortunately, it doesn’t look like any of my extended family survived, and with me marrying into the Hales, San Marino is forfeit.” He says. 

The other man shakes his head. “We’ll put the seat into a trust, and pass it on to our secondborn. We can make House Hale of San Marino the primary cadet branch, ahead of Alba and Gaulia.” 

“You’d do that for me?” 

“Of course I would, stupid.” He says, leaning over to kiss him gently, mindful of the still-healing lip. “I’d put all of Italy into a trust for you. House Stilinski has held San Marino more than five hundred years, and even if it will no longer be true in name, it will be in blood.”

They send word for Marin to return, and when she does, she is trailed by a bookish, middle-aged woman carrying a tablet. “Your Grace,” She says, bowing her head, “My name is Leonora Mittleson, I’m the new Crown Prosecutor.” 

“What happened to Bertrand?” Derek asks, confused. 

“He resigned following the coup attempt.” Marin says, clearly annoyed by this fact. “Half my godsdamned cabinet quit, all of them convinced they had completely failed their jobs.” 

He nods. “It’s good to meet you, Madam Prosecutor. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Mittleson pulls out her tablet, laying it on the coffee table before Derek. “This is an indictment of Katherine Argent by the Office of the Crown Prosecutor. It lists only one offence, regicide, for her organization of the 23 May bombings.”

“May I ask why? I can personally verify she’s committed the crimes of murder, kidnapping, conspiracy against the Crown, fomenting insurrection, and attempted usurpation.” He demands. “Slapping her with _ just _regicide seems a little light.” 

“Article I, Section Four, Clause 9 of the Imperial Constitution lists regicide as an offence for which only one person may try an individual, and that is the succeeding regent of the empire. If we were to indict Argent on the myriad of offenses which she has done, we would have to arrange two separate trials, one presided over by the Supreme Court, and another by you.” She explains. _ “You, _Your Grace, will be responsible for trying Argent and sentencing her if a jury convicts her.” 

Derek blinks. “And if she’s found guilty?”

“The constitution states that all protections against cruel and unusual punishment are revoked if a person is convicted of regicide. There isn’t a thing in the world that you couldn’t order done to her. You could have her drawn and quartered, tarred and feathered, or worse. When Raphael I tried the murderers of his nephew, the Infant Emperor, he ordered they be run through with stakes, starting at their rectums and proceeding until they came out of their mouths.” Mittleson bluntly informs him.

“Now, as part of the Crown Prosecution’s case, I need to take _ your _testimony. Please understand that while you are unable to be stripped of the crown or imprisoned, if you perjure yourself, then there will be a Senate trial, and if convicted, there will be a regency instated for five years, during which time you will be held in house arrest at Versailles.” She says. “Do you understand what I’ve just said?”

He nods, and she continues. “Do you, Derek Marcus Raphael Alexander Hale, swear that the testimony which you are about to give is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

“I do so swear.” 

“Very well, let us begin…”

**-Ω-**

After another two weeks of physical therapy and careful monitoring of his diet, Derek is released from the hospital. In the interim, he is visited by his family, by Erica and Isaac, and by a slew of foreign dignitaries and ambassadors. On the day of his release, enormous crowds gather outside of the hospital, waving flags and throwing white roses, the imperial flower. Looking out over the lot from his room, the emperor lets out a scoff of disbelief. 

“I’m pretty sure half of Amsterdam is outside the hospital grounds,” He says, “Unreal.” 

From behind him, Erica lays out the suit they’ve chosen for his departure, an all white number contrasted by a solid black tie. Isaac toys with his crown idly with his free hand while he taps away on his tablet, overviewing their departure schedule from his position sprawled on the couch.

“Good news,” Erica says gently, “Acting Director Szabó accepted my resignation. Agent Erica Reyes of the Crown Intelligence Service is no more. I am now nothing more than Director of Communications for the Palace of Versailles.” 

He turns, laying a hand on her shoulder. “You didn’t have to do that, you know. I would’ve understood you going back to your work.” 

She shrugs. “My place is by your side, and I have no desire to join the guard. Besides, I’ve had enough spy games to last a lifetime.” 

“Thank you, Erica, really.” He answers, pulling her into a tight hug. 

“Yes, Erica, thank you for not leaving me alone to fend off the wolves.” Isaac snickers, still twirling Derek’s crown around his wrist. 

“You can repay me by not playing with an Ξ80,000 crown like it’s a toy.”

A smart-assed voice interrupts the chatter. “Well, if the last six months have taught us anything, it’s that some people seem to view the Crown as a toy to be played with.” Stiles says as he hobbles into the room, triumphantly clutching a bottle of Coke from a vending machine. “Der, go get dressed, your family is waiting in the lobby and Kali is getting antsy having everyone together in one place that isn’t a missile-proof motorcade.” 

“I hear and obey, Your Grace.” Derek slyly mutters as he pulls the alabaster suit off of the bed and steps into the bathroom to change. 

“Now, why is it that you can make him obey but we can’t?” Isaac asks. 

He smirks. “I can withhold sex, you can’t.” 

The group cackles. 

In the lobby, the groups come together, and Derek takes a moment to step back, savoring the sight of those he loves chattering and laughing one last time before he has to step back out into the real world and begin the cleanup process. Next to him, Captain Kali Amelios, now the head of the Imperial Guard, smiles. 

“It’s good to see them like this, isn’t it?” She asks. “If only Boyd were here for it.”

He nods, sighing. “He is, in spirit. Any word on the funeral arrangements?” 

“His mother and sister are asking for a service with full honors at Notre Dame.” Kali answers. “Technically, only _ you _can authorize a state funeral.”

“It’s done.” He immediately answers. “I’m also going to award him the Laurel of Valor.” 

She whistles, low and impressed. “The highest honor in the empire, you’re not messing around.”

“He saved my life and the life of the Proconsul multiple times. He’s more than earned it.” Derek retorts. 

“I agree.”

**-Ω-**

Before they return to Paris, there is another stop to be made. With Gerard dead and Kate in custody awaiting trial, the position of the Archduchy of England has been left vacant. Technically, Allison is entitled to the position, but there have been no moves to acknowledge her ascension, given the circumstances of treason surrounding House Argent. There’s considerable discussion of stripping them of their position. Not only, but there is also the matter of London.

The explosion on the night of Derek’s kidnapping was, blessedly, limited to the Isle of Dogs. The Canary Wharf neighborhood was mostly commercial buildings, and a relatively minor thirty thousand people were killed in what is still the deadliest attack on civilians in imperial history, and the sense of tragedy, while overwhelming, is shadowed by relief at how much worse everything _ could _have been. 

With damages in the range of hundreds of billions of Carols and an estimated two hundred fifty thousand injuries, the destruction of the Isle of Dogs is seared into the collective memory of the entire world. Before dealing with the matter of succession, Derek makes a stop to the bombing site. There, he gives a brief address vowing that those killed did not die in vain, and that those responsible were either dead or awaiting justice. He also announces the massive investment package the Senate recently approved in secret to rebuild the Isle of Dogs.

Following this foray, the major families of England have gathered for the first Great Council since Alexander III hosted one in 1817 to decide who would succeed the extinct Plantagenet line as the rulers of England. This event is held behind closed doors, with only the emperor, the Imperial Council, the remaining five great houses of England, and the Argents in attendance at the throne room of Buckingham Palace. 

“Thank you, my lords and ladies, for your attendance at this. I’m sure we all have much better things we’d rather be doing, so let’s try to keep this matter brief. I’ll begin by addressing the elephant in the room: Katherine Argent. Many of you have recently heard rumors that she was the illegitimate child of my late grandfather, Duke Jacob Collins of Alba. I must confirm these rumors as truth. The late Archduke Gerard was not aware of this fact until just before he was murdered by Kate.” Derek begins. 

“Following word of her disappearance alongside mine, Archduke Gerard came to believe his daughter may have been the traitor, and realized the most likely place she would take me would be the ancestral Argent seat of Castle Acre. He followed her there alone, hoping to dissuade her of her treason, and since we are gathered here, we can clearly see that he failed. Now, neither the Imperial Council, now headed by Archduchess Melissa Delgado of Iberia, nor yourselves, have recognized Lady Allison, who was the heir designate of Lady Katherine, as Archduchess of England, and so we must gather in conclave here to decide what must happen next. As we all know, the final decision of all peerages and noble titles rests upon myself, but I will first open the floor to discussion from the various lords. Firstly, the Crown recognizes Lady Anne of House Windsor, the recognized cadet house to House Argent and the Duchy of Anglia.” 

An older woman stands up, facing the ducal throne where Derek is seated, and bows deeply to him before speaking. “As we all well know, the War of the Roses which placed House Argent as the lords of all England has been considered a separate, but related conflict to the concurrent Silver Succession, and its aftermath was dealt with differently than that of the mainland conflict.” She begins. 

“House Windsor was elevated ahead of the previous cadet branch, House Spencer, due to their support for the usurper Margaret of Anjou, by Emperor Alexander III. We were considered for the archduchy, but ultimately passed over in favor of House Argent, due to their vocal and material support for His Grace in his own fight for the throne. Since then, House Windsor has served as the dutiful stewards of the Argents and the duchy as a whole. Your Grace, we retain that loyalty, and we support Lady Allison’s claim as Archduchess of England.” Lady Anne concludes, before taking her seat.

Derek nods, and thanks the lady for her words. “The Crown recognizes Tobias Edgcumbe, Duke of Cornwall.” 

The man who steps up is large, with a great beard, but finely dressed and carries himself with seriousness. “Cornwall has always held itself a bit separate from the rest of England, and we continue that tradition now. House Edgcumbe has no opinion either way regarding the matter of the archduchy, and only offers our full support to whatever actions Your Grace takes.”

“Duly noted. The Crown recognizes Jackson Whittemore, Duke of Wales.” He calls.

The young man who steps up and bows to the throne is a rather pretentious looking fellow, but Derek knows him, specifically that he lost his father in the 23 May bombings. “House Whittemore and the other Welsh houses recognize the attested innocence of Lady Allison and her parents, however, in light of the numerous crimes committed by Katherine Argent, we feel that the stain of these many treasons is too deep to wash out. It is without malice or design that we state our belief that House Argent should be stripped of its premiership. As with our southern neighbors, we support whatever decision the Crown should make.” 

It continues, with House Montagu of the Midlands concurring with House Whittemore and House Percy of Cumbria concurring with House Windsor. Given the neutrality of the Cornish, there’s an effective tie among the nobles. Finally, Derek stands to address the gathering. 

“After the War of the Roses, Alexander III came to settle the matter of who would rule as the new Archduke of England. Each of the houses present was among the candidates, as were others, now extinct or otherwise non-contenders. Some have suggested that the Crown grant England to the Queen Mother, or my uncle, Prince Peter. However, House Hale already holds the Archduchy of Francia, and with the recent acquisition of the lordship of San Marino, further expansion of our house’s titles would be inappropriate.” 

He pauses, locking eyes with each of the nobles. “Alexander dealt with the succession with forgiveness and fairness. He did not punish children for the sins of their parents, and he did not eradicate any lines, though none would have thought him unjust for doing so. It is in that spirit of forgiveness that I believe in clemency for House Argent, as those among us today are innocent in their relative’s crimes. Before I make a final decision, however, I would ask that the five great houses vote on the matter. A simple show of hands, no abstentions. All in favor of House Argent retaining premiership over England?” 

The hands of Lady Windsor and Duke Percy go up.

“All in favor of the removal of House Argent?”

The hands of Duke Whittemore and Duchess Montagu go up. 

Derek turns to Duke Edgcumbe. “My lord, as I said, there can be no abstentions. I would ask, do you support the removal or the retention of the Argents?” 

“And as _ I _ said, Your Grace, Cornwall holds no opinion either way. The Crown, however, clearly does, and since the Crown has spoken in favor of House Argent, so will Cornwall.” He answers. 

Clearly, Duke Edgcumbe has a sense of theatricality. Derek likes him quite a bit. “So, with the results of the vote in mind, it is the final ruling of the Crown that Lady Allison Argent be recognized as Archduchess of England, Duchess of Anglia, and Lady of London.” 

“So sayeth His Grace!” Melissa proclaims, standing in her role as head of the council.

The air relaxes noticeably, and Allison and her parents quickly approach Derek, bowing deeply as the gathering breaks. “Thank you, _ so much.” _Allison whispers.

He leans down with a conspiratorial grin. “I didn’t care if every one of these fuckers wanted to oust you, I was never going to do it. This was just to give the nobles the feeling that they had a say.” Derek snickers.

“We’re still indebted to Your Grace.” Christopher says, and his wife nods. 

“Just don’t cause any more trouble, alright? I’ve had enough for a lifetime.” 

She smiles. “No promises.”

“Dammit.”

**-Ω-**

A week later, in the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles, the trial of Katherine Argent for the crime of regicide begins. The jurors consist of twelve high-ranking judges from six neutral countries, two each from the United States, Mexico, Brazil, Japan, Korea, and China. The Crown Prosecutor herself is presenting the government’s case, while the accused’s defence is handled by the Office of the Public Defender of Paris, as, despite the constitutional exceptionality of her crimes, Kate _ is _entitled to a fair legal defense. In attendance are the Imperial Family, the palace staff, the Proconsul, the Cabinet, the entirety of the Senate, Assembly, and the nobility, along with ambassadors from each of the Delian League states, and observers on the part of the United Nations and the International Court of Justice, along with press from across the globe in what promises to be the most watched trial in history. 

Presiding is His Grace, Derek Marcus Raphael Alexander Hale, Emperor of Carolingia, King of Francia, Scotland, Ireland, England, Benelux, Germany, Iberia, Italy, Bohemia, and Yugoslavia, Consul of the Senate, by the Grace of the Gods Supreme Commander of the Armed Forces and Protector of the Realms, King of Scots, Rí na Gaeilge, Prince of Wales, Grand Duke of Luxembourg, Kaiser of Germania, Imperator Italica, Regent Yugoslavia and Consul Emeritus. The emperor slams down the gavel on the rostrum, and opens the floor for opening statements.

Crown Prosecutor Leonora Mittleson presents an airtight case, giving evidence which includes Kate’s written exchanges with Deaton and her YLF contact Goran Sovic, as well as Burkinabe separatists, a fascist paramilitary in the Commonwealth of Poland, and the communist underground in Tibet. Also presented is the DNA test which revealed her true parentage, prompting gasps of shock and to ripple throughout the audience. The clincher, however, is Derek’s sworn testimony.

The public defender assigned to Kate attempts to mount an insanity defence, as the entire plot is clearly so harebrained that no sane woman would think of it. When the time for witnesses is called, the prosecution calls up several psychologists who have spoken with Kate throughout her imprisonment. All of them have reached the same conclusion, that while she is a textbook case of malignant narcissistic personality disorder, Katherine Argent is more than competent enough to stand trial.

When Kate makes her way onto the stand, she marches up to it and seats herself with all the grandiosity of the empress she would believe herself to be. Dressed in a plain, knee-length black dress and wearing her hair back in a flawless bun, she is entirely calm, as though she isn’t staring down the barrel of the end. 

“Lady Argent,” CP Mittleson begins, “The evidence the Crown has presented against you is incontrovertible, so I will simply ask you this— do you deny _ any _of the allegations against you as they have been presented here today?”

She pauses, taking a deep breath, before turning her head to look directly into Derek’s eyes. “I do not.” 

“No further questions.” 

Kate’s defender stands. “Your Grace?” 

“Yes, Counselor?” 

“In light of my client’s statements, the defense rests.” 

Derek nods. “And the Crown?”

“The Crown rests, Your Grace.” Mittleson says, sitting down. 

“Very well. Jurors, you will now be escorted to deliberations. While there, please select one of your own to speak as foreman. When you have reached your verdict, please alert the guards posted outside your door, and they will escort you back to the hall where you will read your verdict. If you have any other needs, please, do not hesitate to ask.” He instructs the jury, who are then shuffled out of the hall to an adjacent room that has been converted into a chamber for deliberation.

Absolutely no one is surprised when it takes the jury less than ten minutes to reach a verdict. If Derek had to wager, it took more time to select a foreman than it did to make their decision. When they are brought back in and have retaken their seats in the juror’s box, the emperor turns to face the woman standing alone amongst them. 

“Madam Forewoman, has the jury reached a verdict?” He asks. 

With a stony face, she nods. “We have, Your Grace. In the matter of _ The Crown v. Katherine Mary Elizabeth Argent, _to the charge of regicide, by unanimous decision and without any undue influence or coercion, we the jury find the defendant, Katherine Mary Elizabeth Argent, guilty.”

Derek’s eyes immediately flit to Kate, finding that she has not so much as blinked. Meanwhile, her attorney, it seems, wishes to be anywhere but here. “Very well. The Crown thanks the jury for its service. Katherine Argent, you have been tried and found guilty of the crime of regicide.” 

He stops for a moment, locking eyes with her. “As Emperor of Carolingia, I and I alone am able to sentence you for this crime. There is nothing between Olympus and Tartarus which I could not force you to endure, as is my constitutional prerogative. However, as has been established, whether or not you share my name, you _ are _the blood of the phoenix, and there is only one punishment befitting a phoenix.”

“Katherine Mary Elizabeth Argent, I sentence you to death by fire.”

**-Ω-**

Kate’s execution is not a public affair, as public executions have been outlawed for more than a hundred-fifty years. Instead, it is attended by the Imperial Council, the Proconsul and Speaker, and the Imperial Family, and is to be carried out by the Imperial Guard. For security’s sake, as well as to keep away any unwanted eyes, they are brought to a small chateau in the Ile-de-Carol that is one of the Crown’s smaller properties, hidden deep in one of the last old-growth forests in western Europe.

Erected in the large field outside is a three meter high metal pole, intricately carved with images of phoenixes and triskelions. It glints in the brilliant sunshine of the late autumn day, standing out in stark silver contrast to the fading remnants of the red and orange foliage. Known as the Pretender’s Pyre, the pole was made for the execution of Marie Nassau, who rose in rebellion against Nolan I. The emperor was killed in combat, and his heir, Empress Sofia I, was assassinated, as was her three-year old son and successor, the Infant Emperor Jacques II. Nassau was finally defeated by Nolan’s son, the founder of the Golden Dynasty, Emperor Raphael I. The Pretender’s Pyre was forged for her execution, and put to use in 1138.

The pole is embedded into the ground, and a pair of chains hang from the top to be used to restrain the condemned. There’s barely enough room to stand around the stake, as a trench a little less than half a meter deep has been dug out to be filled with Greek fire. A mainstay of execution by fire for more than two thousand years, the substance eliminates the need for kindling, as it burns so hot that it dries out almost anything it comes into contact with instantly, including flesh. Effectively, the fluid turns a person’s own body into the fuel for the fire.

Everyone in attendance solemnly stands in a half-circle around the site of the execution, dressed entirely in black. As the sun begins to set, the remaining Argent family emerges from the chateau, having been permitted a final chance to speak with Kate. According to the guards, all that was said was that each of them damned her to a deeper and hotter hell than the last.

Finally, Kate is brought out, her arms held by Kali. She wears a white frock that covers her entire body to the neck, and her hair is down. She has no makeup on, and has been stripped of all of her jewelry. Kali escorts the doomed woman to the stake, and carefully chains her before tightening them, holding her arms high over her head. Two other guardsmen dump the Greek fire into the trench, casting a ghostly green glow around Kate’s feet in the evening light.

Derek steps out of the gathering, wearing his crown upon his head and dressed in a delicately embroidered black tunic, looking every inch the emperor he is. “Katherine Mary Elizabeth Argent, you have been duly tried and duly sentenced for your crimes. As Emperor of Carolingia, I, Derek Marcus Raphael Alexander Hale, now order this sentence to be carried out. Have you any final words?”

For the first time since the trial, Kate’s face becomes animate, and with hatred sneering across her face, she spits on the ground before her. 

He breathes in once, keeping eye contact with the woman who nearly took everything from him. “Burn her.” 

A switch is flipped by Kali, and a fuse leading into the Greek fire at her feet sparks to life. Instantly, a haze of emerald fire shoots up with an incredible roar, obscuring her form and drowning out any potential screams, not that it’s likely there were any, given how quickly Katherine Argent is reduced to a skeleton licked at by the poisonous fire. It only takes a few minutes for the fire to die down, and when it has, Derek turns around without speaking and marches back into the chateau, trailed by an equally silent entourage of those in attendance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drop a review and piss on Kate's ashes on the way out!


	19. Epilogue - Shetland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are. I want to thank everyone for putting up with the lengthy history lessons, keeping track of the many names and plot lines, and for tolerating my endless politicking. You guys fucking rock.

**Six Years Later**

On the main landmass of the Shetland Islands, there is a low, one story home that is built overlooking the rocky shore and choppy waters of the North Sea. Owned by the Duchess of Alba, this home, stark and beautifully modern, is now filled by the emperor and his family. The last vestiges of daylight are fading over the western horizon, turning the cloudy sky a brilliant shade of red that promises kinder weather in the morning. As dark as it is, there are still no lights on inside. 

Derek leans against a column in the kitchen, looking out over the roiling sea, drinking from a glass of wine. From behind, a pair of arms snake around his waist and a mouth kisses at his neck. “The Crown Prince is finally asleep.” Stiles murmurs, “As is the little princess.”

“How’d you get a four year-old and a two year-old to go to bed?” Derek wryly asks. 

“Bribed them.” He says without regret. “Told Raf we’d go whale watching tomorrow, and promised Caroline I’d give her a cookie with lunch.” 

The other man chuckles softly. “They’ve already figured out the golden rule of politics; everyone wants  _ something,  _ and you can always give them something in return.”

“I blame Erica. She’s too much of an influence on them.” 

“She also babysits so that we can have a date night, despite the fact that she’s only the comms director.” He retorts. “Spares us having to bring a nanny on staff.” 

“And when we don’t have her, there’s always Isaac, or Braeden, or Kali, or Laura…”

Derek laughs. “I get it, the entire freaking palace loves our kids.” 

There’s a moment of silence as Stiles disentangles himself, rounding the island in the kitchen to pour a glass of wine. He leans against the counter to take a sip of his drink. “Raphael starts kindergarten next year.” 

“And?”

“Is it bad that I want him to be my little boy forever?” He asks. 

“Good,” His husband replies, “It means you’re a parent like any other. We’re separate from our kids enough as it is. I feel like I blink and years are gone. Now they’ll be gone for seven hours a day ten months out of the year. Before we know it, they’ll be graduating and getting married…”

Stiles forms a mocking smile. “And we’ll be getting  _ old _ and  _ fat,  _ and one of us will need medicine for ED so that we can keep up with our promise to still be doing it when we’re old and fat.” 

“I have no intention of getting fat in my old age. You can do as you please, I’ll still be attracted to you when we’re a hundred and fifty and you weigh three times what I do.” Derek retorts. 

“Comforting, truly. Though at a hundred-fifty, I expect our biggest problem will be our balls getting tangled together when they’re dragging on the floor.” 

The emperor gags out loud, shuddering at the visual. “No more talk of old balls, please and thank you.”

“Gonna bring that lovely lobster we had for dinner back up?” He snickers. 

“Yes,” He returns, glaring, “And I  _ will  _ make you clean it up.” 

Stiles saunters over, setting down his wine glass and snaking his arms around Derek’s neck, leaning in close, speaking with a low, seductive voice. “Is that coming from my husband or my sovereign?” 

“You know the answer to that.” Derek evenly replies. “Your husband,  _ always  _ your husband.” 

“Damn straight. We leave the sovereign in the bedroom.” He says, kissing him with all manner of filthy intentions. “What do you say we bring him out tonight?”

Fire fills the monarch’s eyes. “Am I wearing the crown?”

“You know the answer to that.” Stiles teases.

**-Ω-**

The next morning, the padding of little bare feet against the dark brown hardwood floors of the bedroom stirs Derek awake seconds before a familiar head of dark hair and honey gold irises appears next to him, his features blazoned with Stiles’ eyes reflected in Raphael, his firstborn and heir. 

“Morning, buddy,” He says, yawning as he stretches before reaching out to pull Raf to sit on the edge of the mattress, “How’d you sleep?”

“Weird.” His son answers. “The sound of the ocean was weird.” 

“Yeah, it takes some getting used to. No nightmares?” 

Raphael shakes his head, grinning proudly. “Nope. No wet, either!”

“Good job, kiddo. C’mon, let’s go make breakfast for your papa and your sister. Apparently we’re going whale watching after lunch.” Derek says with mock severity as he gives Stiles’ sleeping form some serious side-eye.

“You know how Papa is, he’ll say anything to get me to go to bed.” He shrugs. 

His father smiles with fondness at his husband. “Yeah, but he also makes good on his promises.”

“Like what?”

“He once promised me he’d come back to me, and I was sure he wouldn’t be able to, but he did.” Derek answers. “He has a habit of proving me wrong.”

The boy looks at him with confusion painting his features. “Don’t people hate being wrong?” 

“Sometimes in life, being wrong is the best feeling in the world. You’ll figure that out when you’re older.” 

“You mean when I’m emperor?”

He shakes his head. “No, I don’t plan on going anywhere that soon. I think you’ll figure it out a long time before you have the crown on your head.” 

“But… Dad, you’re wrong.”

“How so?”

“I already have a crown. You make me wear it whenever people come over to see us at the palace.”

Derek does not respond, he just laughs, and presses a kiss to the top of his son’s head. As the dawn drifts in through the wide windows that reveal calm waves and crystal blue skies, he sweeps up Raphael onto his waist and marches out into the kitchen.

_ Sometimes,  _ he thinks to himself,  _ Being wrong is the best feeling in the world. And sometimes, your four year-old is just a smartass. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seventy thousand words later, we reach the end. My thanks to Vanessa, Brennan, and Ben for all their proofing on various sections and for listening to literally thousands of words worth of history that exists to back up this universe but that never needed to be mentioned. Again, thank you all so much. Drop a review, and feel free to check out some of my other shit. There's more politics, more porn, and a couple of works even set in the canon universe, what a thought! Until next time, stay safe, and stay the fuck home until this pandemic is finally over.


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